


The Endless War (The Cook, book 1)

by fire_is_my_happy_place



Series: The Cook [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Bondage, Brainwashing, Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Flogging, Group Sex, Heavy BDSM, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knifeplay, M/M, Misogyny, Miss Pauling is a BAMF, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Torture, Violent Sex, degredation, fireplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 137,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_is_my_happy_place/pseuds/fire_is_my_happy_place
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The RED team asks for additional support staff and is given a single, female masochist. Her arrival is the first new presence on either base for decades, and touches off a series of changes in both teams as they are forced to contemplate the nature of their war and the effect of their isolation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first book in a three book series. While this series is obviously wank fodder, I do have a method to my madness. (It's not just wank fodder, though you can certainly use it that way.)
> 
> Comments, suggestions, thoughts, feedback: please feel free. I don't have to like it or agree with it. I will delete it if the only point of the comment is to antagonize, and to those persons whose previous comments got deleted when I restructured this, you have my apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover image courtesy of the lovely Valoscope.


	2. Prologue

Dinner, such as it was, was finished. Stacks of dirty plates littered the table, and the mess in the kitchen sink had overflowed onto the counters, food spattering the counters like a Jackson Pollock. The mercenaries sat, talking quietly over the remains of their food. It had been pissing down rain and sleet all day, the sky a particular shade of iron gray rare to the desert, and overcast, a state even rarer. To a man they were wet and exhausted, and now that their bellies were full, loathe to get started on the greasy mess left over by dinner. The chore rotation had been more of a suggestion than binding, the men slower this night than most to volunteer to do something about the mess in the kitchen. If the Engineer hadn’t simply taken over the meal, they wouldn’t have bothered with hot food, let alone sitting together.

The day’s losses had taken their toll on morale, and not a man in the room felt particularly social or energetic. The Soldier, with his customary grunt, had retired to his room instead of bothering with a public meal—the rest of the team assumed he’d gone to eat an MRE, avoiding having to wash dishes or having to discuss the day with any of them. One too many missed rockets often sent the man into a sullen rage or sulk, and if he was going to choose to let everyone else avoid his anger, they were happy to let him do it.

The Demo scratched his head, curly hairs standing at attention around the strap of his eye patch. With a heavy sigh, he pushed his plate to the side, bumping his elbows against the table and swearing before leaning forward on them to look around the room. “I’ve done all the cooking I care ta,” he said heavily, “and I cannae eat any more of the food we make.”

The Engineer shifted in his chair, laying down his fork with an exasperated huff. “Look,” he drawled, picking up his water glass between the fingers of his flesh hand and rolling it gently to watch the refraction pattern on the table, “ya’ll didn’t complain that badly last time I cooked. If I don’t have to do the dishes, I’ll just cook more often.”

“ _Nein_ ,” snapped Medic, slamming his knife down flat on the scarred table. “Not everything has to be fried, and anything you don’t burn, you fry. And the bacon on everything. Have you considered, Texan, that some things are not improved by bacon? Those terrible pancakes—”

The Spy cut in, eyes fixed on his wine glass through the gray rooster tails of cigarette smoke wafting up from his hand. “Americans have the most pathetic palates. What they call cheese here alone—it is not worth eating, let alone for these last decades.” His words trailed off in a shudder and he sighed, voice growing wistful. “I would kill for a properly made _baeckeoffe_.”

The Scout pounded a fist against the table, rattling the silverware and knocking over a glass that the Medic picked up with a grimace.  “Fuck you, froggie, some of us like to eat shit that doesn’t smell like my socks. Whatever the fuck that back off thing is, it’s probably made of butter and fucking snails or some other vile shit. Engie’s cooking ain’t that bad. It ain’t my ma’s food, but it ain’t bad.”

In the corner of the room, the Sniper shifted in his chair. “Oi. OI!” In the ensuing silence, he cleared his throat. “I don’t know about any of you wankers, but I didn’t really spend that much time learning to cook. I don’t want to do it any more than Demo does.”

The Heavy chuckled, a rumble that burst into open, mocking laughter. “Little men fight over dinner? Fight louder. Soldier will hear.”

“Whoa, whoa there, big guy. Nobody wants Solly around for this. Does that man eat anything but MREs?” The Scout sat back in his chair hard enough to make the wood squeal against the floor. “The shit Soldier will stick in his mouth is disgusting. As long as he doesn’t think we’re being invaded by Commies, he’ll be fine with whatever we do.”

“A suggestion then,” the Spy tapped his cigarette into the tray in front of him, “RED wants us to fight well and we know they can afford it. Why not suggest they hire someone?”

The Pyro’s head lifted at that, along with both his thumbs, but he said nothing—rarely talkative or even responsive, he often communicated in grunts and gestures. He’d been permanently removed from the cooking rotation after he’d set the kitchen on fire trying to make fries. While he would wash the dishes, the rest of the team often opted to simply forget to tell him when it was his turn to do anything in the kitchen, reasoning that it was probably safer. For his part, the Pyro opted not to ask. If someone else wanted to cook and clean, it was fine with him.

“Well, Py thinks it’s a good idea, and I’d do anything to get out of kitchen duty.” The Scout turned to Spy.  “But how are we going to get RED to pay for it?”

“We could always send you in to charm Miss Pauling.” The Spy smirked at Scout, whose furious blush spread from his hair line down through the collar of his t shirt.

“You always fucking start it. I’m going to end it one of these days.” The Scout leaned across the table, poking a hard finger into the front of the Spy’s vest. “You’re going to be out there and I’m going to catch you and send you through respawn. When you wake back up, it’ll be with one of my cleats up your ass.”

“Try it, _lapin_. Let us see if you can find me while you run circles in the sand, yelling and waving that ridiculous gun.” The Spy smiled thinly and reached for the Scout’s finger. The Scout pulled it free just before the Spy’s fingers closed on it, rocking back in his chair.

The Medic clicked his tongue, too tired to do much more than shake his head. “There they go again.”

“Perhaps little men would be more happy if they were well fed.” The Heavy splayed a large hand on the table, flexing the cramps from it. “Then they would be quieter. Is hard to be angry after a good meal.”

“ _Ist gut_ ,” the Medic said. “I will mention it in my report on the team’s morale.”

“What the hell is wrong with bacon,” asked the Engineer as the men filed out of the dining room. “And what’s wrong with chicken fried steak?”

“Not a damn thing, Engie. Our foreign fruits are getting antsy.” The Scout slapped the Engineer on the shoulder.  “But at least we won’t have to do the dishes no more.”


	3. Chapter 3

They had agreed that the Engineer should meet the new guy at the gate, but when the rattling truck pulled away in a cloud of dust, it was the Soldier who stood by it. The Soldier suspiciously eyeballed the person, three flowered suitcases, and five heavy, wooden crates of supplies through the fence. The suitcases were mismatched and heavily scuffed. The crates, however, were new and the small gaps in the slats exposed the vivid edges of produce and the red, swaddled shapes of meat. The Soldier eyed the crates hungrily, but the figure worried him, anonymous under the layers of wool and cotton.

“Are you requesting permission to enter this facility? Only good, red-blooded Americans can enter this facility. Are you a good, red-blooded American?” The Soldier wrapped a calloused hand around the chain links and glared down at the figure, eyes running up and down the bulky coat for clues.

Shivering in the desert cold, the figure stood quiet, shocked—the bulky man standing on the other side of the fence was hostile to the point of snarling. She looked him up and down. _Facility? This place can’t be a military installation_ , she thought. _No military in the world would put an active duty soldier in cherry red cotton_. His wind-buffed cheeks matched his uniform shirt, and he wore an archaic helmet, dented and the enamel chipped and cracking. _Did I get hired to cook for some kind of mental institution?_ _Are you a mental patient?_

“No response, eh?” His eyes narrowed and he leaned into the fence. “A good American would respond. What’s in those boxes, Comrade? Have you come to infiltrate our good American taste buds with your Commie borscht?”

The Engineer, who had been held up by a phone call, ran in behind the Soldier just in time to hear the word ‘borscht’. He grabbed the Soldier’s shoulder and pulled gently. “It’s okay, Doe, I can take it from here.”

“You will not let this base be infiltrated by commie scum,” the Soldier bellowed, letting himself be slowly pulled from the chain link fence.

“It’s okay, Solly, I promise this one is an American.” The Engineer patted the Soldier’s shoulder and tried to steer him away from the gate.

The Soldier gave them both one last, lingering glare and stomped away, snow crunching beneath his boots.

“Did…. Did RED not tell you I was coming?” The voice’s pitch was too high to be masculine, and now that the Engineer looked more closely at the lumps in the overcoat, he realized that the figure was female. He grimaced and sighed. This would cause at least as many problems as it fixed on a base full of lonely men. Even if the men who were sleeping together didn’t take an interest, enough of the men would to make the whole situation a catastrophe waiting to happen. He wondered, darkly, if this was a punishment for asking RED to shell out more for the mercenaries and decided the Administrator was just vindictive enough to do it.

The figure shuffled her feet in the snow. “It’s cold and I have a lot of supplies. Help me get them in?”

Without another word, the Engineer grabbed two of the crates and tucked one under each arm. The figure grabbed a crate and balanced it precariously against her chest on one arm, the other dragging a heavy suitcase. The Engineer led the way back to the base, trying to figure out how to explain the problems she caused by being there. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say, even when they bumped into the Heavy, who took the crate from the small figure and followed along.

In the kitchen, the figure started shedding layers. A thick overcoat was laid over a chair, followed by a jacket, a scarf, a woolen hat, and a set of leather gloves. Emerging from the cloth cocoon was a short woman, auburn hair spilling out from under a woolen cap. Black, squared glasses sat on a long, slightly down-turned nose, lightly dusted with freckles. _Not a speck of make-up_ , the Engineer thought. _Maybe she’s the practical type_. His eyes kept going, looking at the thick flannel— _definitely practical_ , he thought approvingly—and finding deep cleavage. The Engineer groaned under his breath. _Oh this is fantastic_ , he thought sarcastically. _Half of ‘em have a thing for tits_. _And who doesn’t have a thing for red-heads?_

The Heavy raised a thick eyebrow. “Is a woman. Will be trouble.”

The Cook put her hands on her hips. “Look, I’m just here to do a job. No need to get excited.”

“Miss, I don’t think you understand,” he said, leaning on the walnut of the dining room table and making it groan. “We’re _lonely_ out here. They let us go to town and those of us that want to make our arrangements with professionals or enthusiastic amateurs. But Miss, we ain’t got to town in eight months.” The Engineer pushed his goggles up, staring into her eyes— _brown, maybe_ , he thought. “You can do the job all you want, but someone’s going to try to get friendly with you.”

She eyed the man in front of her, his metal hand flexing with a faint whir, and the giant beside him. If these two and the yelling man at the gate—Solly, she corrected herself—were anything like the rest of the team, they had no chance of getting near her. Both of the men staring at her were grim, humorless, and absolutely not her type. The man who’d yelled at her just seemed crazy, as if he were somehow speaking directly from the 1950s, down a long tube to the present.

 _It’s my first job all over again_ , she thought. _Everyone lined up to listen to the manager and some burly motherfucker leaning over to whisper “what do you think you’re doing here, little girl” in my ear._ _Didn’t scare me off then, won’t scare me off now._ She eyed them both coolly and turned, dismissing them. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

The Cook ran her hand over the first crate, checking for damage in transit, and heard a sharp intake of breath behind her. _Good_ , she thought. _You can learn this lesson early_. Unzipping her suitcase, she removed a crowbar and pried open the crate. The Cook preoccupied herself with pulling the eggs from their nest and checking them while the men stood there, the Engineer fuming. After a moment, she looked over at him and spoke. “Would one of you go get the other two crates and the rest of my bags?”

He took another sharp breath, then sighed. “Well, big guy, at least the food will be better.” The Engineer turned to leave, motioning the Heavy along with him.

“ _да_. At least that, until one of us scares her away or worse.”

She rolled her eyes as their footsteps faded.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

Trouble started before dinner, when the RED Sniper wandered into the kitchen for a coffee refill. He stood in the kitchen door way, shocked to stillness. A woman was bent in front of the oven, sliding loaves in their pans into it, her ass forming a heart as she bent. If he hadn’t known someone was coming, he’d have dropped and dented his thermos. When she’d placed the final pan, she stretched, knuckling her lower back. He followed the flour dusting up her forearms, immediately imagining himself tying them to something—the position was very perfect for a hold.

The Sniper cleared his throat and spoke. “Look at the little Bird. Whose bad idea were you?”

She whipped about, hand hovering near the knife tucked into her apron. A tall, thin, horse-faced man stood behind her. His skin was heavily tanned and weathered, and his dark brown hair bristled in sideburns, slightly darker than the shaggy ends peeking out from under his worn leather hat. The color of his eyes was hidden by large, yellow glasses. One long-fingered hand reached up as she watched, and she heard a rasp as he scratched his chin. Something in his eyes reminded her of nothing so much as a cat, raising the little hairs on the back of her neck. He shrugged the nylon strap of a rifle back up on his shoulder, thermos in his other hand, but otherwise remained still.

The silence stretched on for some time while she tried to decide how to introduce herself and what might be safe to say to this man. He was patient while she thought, a quietness that he seemed to draw around himself like a coat. Finally, she responded. “I’m the new Cook. Who are you?”

He eased into the kitchen slowly, watching her hand hovering near the blade with a slight smile that made her decide to put a chair under the door handle at night. “I’m the Sniper.”

“They warned me not to ask for names, so I’ll just use Sniper.” She watched him closely, looking for clues—a hunter, she decided, one who spent more time around animals than people, more time speechless than speaking, and no one she wanted to meet in a dark alley. He smelled like sweat, smoke, and gun oil.

“Right,” he said, his slight smile broadening into a grin. “I’d hate to have to kill you.”

The Cook raked him with her eyes, a contemptuous gesture that the Sniper found rather appealing—the quick, defensive ire made him wonder what sort of woman she was. He thought he could guess if the company had sent her out to the middle of the desert by herself. If this one hadn’t been on the wrong side of the law, he’d be very surprised.

“You can try it, Slim,” she said. “But not before I get a good stab in at this distance.”

The Sniper’s grin spread feral across his face, exposing his canines. “You’ll do just fine.” He tapped his thermos with a nail. “I need coffee.”

She pointed to one of the large, burlap bags of beans on the counter. “The coffee you were using was that awful, tinned stuff, so I bought my own. The grinder is in the cabinet above the beans, and the French press is beside it.”

So she had already settled into the space. It answered a few questions about what she thought she was doing there, but didn’t answer the question he found himself thinking. “That’s a lot of work for coffee,” he said, probing gently to see if she would do what he asked or snap at him.

She snorted and turned back to the stove. “Did you need me to make your coffee for you, as well?” The look she sent him over her shoulder was rude to the point of brusqueness, and he wanted to chortle, pleased. Not a pushover, but someone who genuinely thought they were there to work—he wondered what the Spy would make of her, and what leverage his partner-in-crime might discover over the time she was contracted to be there.

The Sniper smiled again, his lips quirking up. “That is what you’re here for, isn’t it?” _And that_ , he thought, _is the question_. _What did they send you for, little girl_ ? _There’s no way RED sent you here just to cook_. _They ain’t that kind of company._ He looked around at the newly clean kitchen, bleach still a sting in the air. _But you sure think they did, little bird_.

The Cook sighed and tugged the end of her braid in frustration. _Another one_ , she thought, _just as hostile as the first group. Aren’t any of you fuckers happy to get the help?_  “Fine,” she said, irritation tightening her voice. “Leave your thermos. It’ll be about ten minutes.”

 _Lazy_ , she thought. _Lazy, lazy bastards_. The kitchen had been moldy with unwashed grease, and it had taken her several hours and an entire bottle of bleach to get it clean enough not to be hazardous to their health. The refrigerator alone had held enough green, fuzzy things to let her make her own penicillin, which she might have needed simply to scrub their cutlery.

The Sniper clunked his thermos down and leaned against the wall, making her cross the room to get it and giving him the faintest hint of scent, something that ran strong to vanilla. Much like the cat he resembled, he found himself completely unable to not bait her, to see what she responded to. “Like the braid,” he said. “Makes a nice handle.”

She turned, eyes widening and then narrowing under her glasses, her hand going back to the knife tucked into her apron. “I will stab each and every one of you motherfuckers if I have to.”

 _Yeah_ , he thought, _wrong side of the law, but not very. And working just a little too hard to be intimidating_.

The Cook snatched the thermos from the counter near the Sniper, grimacing at the crust of dried coffee around the lid, and took it to the sink to wash the accumulated crud out of the metal cylinder. As she made the coffee, the Sniper watched her move. Short, jerky, harsh contractions of her arm made him estimate her to be stronger than she looked. She was quite small, a little over a meter in a half, and solid with the muscle needed to work in a kitchen. She’d fight hard when she fought, and he found himself wondering how hard he’d have to work to subdue her. When she presented him with his now clean, full thermos, he decided that he could do it in the first minute, for all the angry posturing she’d done. _Been months since the last time I saw a woman on her knees in front of me_ , he thought. _I’m going to fix that. Soon._

She could see it on his face when she turned. The Sniper almost didn’t get his hand clear of the thermos on the counter before the tip of her knife wedged into the wooden counter, where it would have pinned his hand. “Try it, Slim,” she said, “and see what happens.”

 _A challenge_ , he thought, the beginning of heat tingling across his body, and grinned at her. “I’ll be seeing you later, little bird.”

The Sniper retrieved his thermos and tipped his hat to her, eyes never leaving hers behind his yellow glasses. Before he left the room, he saw her hand shake slightly on the blade in the counter and whistled a warbling bird call that lingered in the air long after he had left: mockery and a warning that she understood immediately.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The announcer bellowed and cackled the end of the day’s fight—the Cook jumped, startled, and started to take platters out to the dining room table. She arranged and rearranged several roasted chickens, loaves of still-hot bread, a bowl of buttered sweet peas, and a pile of mashed potatoes, then scolded herself for being nervous. If the Sniper, Solly, the giant, and the Engineer were any guide, she was about to have a ridiculously awkward dinner service, but it wasn’t as if she’d never had a hard service before. There was nowhere for her to sit, so she decided to simply behave as if she were at a banquet. She tucked a clean towel over one arm and stood in the corner, straightening from her slouch as she heard the squeak of shoes outside the door.

The Scout, usually first to dinner, stopped in the doorway. He scanned the room, finding the Cook, and burst into laughter. “Holy shit,” he said, recovering quickly. “They sent us a chick.”

She looked at him— _two-thirds leg, probably all stomach_ , she thought—and wondered if she’d made enough. His blonde hair stuck out from under a dingy ball cap in every possible direction, and she could see the chain of a set of dog tags on the back of his tanned neck. His red t shirt was speckled with brown. With a startled jump, she realized he was covered in dried blood. He was clean-shaven. She wondered if he were even old enough to shave. His once-over started at her feet, and was cheerfully naughty. He whistled once, grinning, and she glared at him.

The Scout was, despite his hooting laugh, rather pleased. They hadn’t just picked a woman, they’d picked a petite woman. _She is kind of adorable_ , he thought. _A little rounder than I like ‘em, but good enough_. The glare didn’t worry him in the least.

A tall, dark-haired man in a filthy lab coat shoved him from behind. “Move, _kinder_. Some of us are hungry.”

She thought the man in front of her might be as old as his mid-forties. A smattering of white in his hair and the beginnings of lines beside his eyes told her that he was certainly not a boy. He moved with a slight slouch, as if accustomed to carrying a heavy pack, but the skin she could see was firm over thick cords of muscle. _Well preserved forties_ , she thought. _A good looking man_. He wore a filthy lab coat, stained to the waist, and she found herself looking for dried blood again. She found it. The man was drenched in drying blood, as if he’d been butchering hogs. The Cook shifted uneasily, a chill running up her spine.

The dark-haired man looked at her from head to toe before swearing quietly in German, spit flying from his mouth. “ _Fräulein_ ,” he said after a few seconds, “you are perhaps not what I meant in my report.” The small red-head in the corner was precisely what he had been afraid of when the Engineer had said the Administrator sent a woman. _Look at her_ , he thought, _she’s looking at my coat and cringing_. _They sent a small, red-headed, large-breasted, female civilian_. He could not imagine what in the hell the Administrator had been thinking.

It hit him like a slap in the face, his head rocking back. _Oh no_ , he thought, paling. _No, surely not. Surely, Helen, you are not that cruel._

Her shoulders and chin lifted, defensive anger drawing her attention from the blood-soaked lab coat. “RED offered me a hell of a lot of money to do this for a few years, and access to some kind of anti-aging technology. I think we can all get used to one another.”

The Medic wanted to pick her up by the shoulders and shake her.

The mercenaries filed in, each pausing in the door to look at her and then past her to the table. She tried not to wilt under their intense, hostile scrutiny. Man after man walked through the door, leering, measuring, trying to make her flinch— _no friends in this room_ , she thought, eyes darting from face to face. She was used to working with ex-cons, but this group of men made her nervous in a way the men she used to manage never had. The air over the table fairly simmered with menace and underneath it an explosive, pent-up frustration that she’d only seen in kitchens right before someone stabbed the man next to him. She was relieved when they turned away from her to eat, and slumped in the corner with an audible sigh when the last man had seated himself.

At the strange, hair-ruffling sensation of being watched, she looked up. Another dark-haired man sat, fork dangling from two fingers and staring. His suit was filthy, one side singed and its red sleeves darkened with fluids she refused to consider. His expression said, quite loudly, that he was thinking about bending her over the table. It said he was sure he could make her like it, and he wanted her to see what he was thinking. After a moment, he spoke in a purring baritone. “I think this is exactly what we needed for morale.”

The mercenaries turned when he spoke, eyeballing her. The Cook didn’t know if she wanted a shower or just to run out of the room, to get away from the sensation of being publicly stripped from the inside out. The mercenaries watched the flush disappear into the open dip in her shirt with various expressions. She wrapped her arms across her chest, pushing her shirt fully closed. “Which one are you,” she forced out between her clenched teeth. _A fucking game of chicken_ , she thought, _so you can see what makes me flinch. Fine, I flinched. Stop staring at me._

“Me, _petite_? I am the Spy.” He gave her a little half bow from his chair, his lips curling up at the edges in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But we should introduce ourselves. This,” he said, gesturing to a large, black man beside him, “is the Demo.”

“Hello, lassie,” the man said, his uncovered eye blinking slowly before he returned to piling his plate.

“And this,” the Spy said, “is the Medic.”

The man in the lab coat scowled at her.

“This is the Heavy.” The Spy pointed at the huge, bald headed man who’d taken her crates. He looked up, a quick flash of blue under heavy brows, before turning back to the food.

“This is our Pyro.” A heavily scarred, black-haired man looked up, his gaze lazily wandering the room before settling on her and sharpening. She had barely noticed him as he walked in, and his once over had been furtive. His face was solemn, even nearly expressionless, but his eyes were full of violence. “Don’t mind him,” the Spy said. “He’s a bit strange.”

“A bit strange?” She found herself unable to look away from his face—there was no sex in his eyes, only a stillness that spoke of the willingness to attack if provoked.

“Don’t worry. He’s safe enough.”

When she finally tore her eyes away, it was with a shiver.

“Our Scout.” The Spy pointed at the boy, who grinned at her again.

“This is pretty good, lady. You always going to cook like this? You should. It’s really tasty.” He gestured with a gnawed chicken leg, fragments of skin and grease flying across the table. “It’s almost as good as my ma’s.”

The Cook blinked at him and realized she was wringing the towel with both hands. “Thanks. I think.” She smoothed the towel back over her arm. _Jesus_ , she thought. _I have to stop flinching_.

The Spy spoke as the Scout took a breath to continue. “Don’t encourage him. He talks constantly.”

The Scout scowled but went back to the chicken leg in his hand, unwilling to waste time arguing when he could eat.

“You have met the Engineer and the Soldier.” The man with the metal hand waved once, stiffly, and the man who’d yelled at her didn’t look up from his plate, merely grunted.

Before the Spy could introduce him, the tanned, horse-faced man spoke. “We’ve been introduced.”

She scowled at him. “Yes. Yes, we have.”

The Sniper’s eyes slid down into slits. _I’m putting a chair under the doorknob and taking a knife with me to bed_ , she thought. “The Administrator told me to announce that if any unpleasant incidents occurred, I would be getting hazard pay, and it would be taken from the pay of the mercenary or mercenaries who caused the incident.”

As she finished the sentence, a faint accent crept into her voice. The Spy recognized it immediately, adding to his observations on her. “ _Parlez-vous_?”

She blinked, startled. “ _Petit-peu. Je ne suis pas du France. Suis Cajun._ ”

“ _Acadien._ ” He smiled, teeth bright against his tanned skin. “Your French is rusty and a bit vulgar.”

“We don’t speak your pretty French.” Her shoulders hunched, despite her best effort to ignore the tension in the room and the oddly acute sense of having been somehow disappointing.

“It’s still,” he said, eyes glittering as he tilted his head to consider her, “a pleasure to hear _la belle langue_ from someone in this godforsaken place, however corrupted.” After a pregnant pause, his voice purred out into the distance between them. “I could always help you learn a better language.”

Her head snapped back as if slapped. “ _Je pr_ _éf_ _ère sucer une ch_ _èvre_.”

“I had no idea your tastes would be so dirty.” The last word in the sentence dropped from his lips like a teaspoon of cold honey, rich and thick. “How exciting.”

The Cook paled. _I walked right into it_ , she thought, _like a stupid little girl_. For lack of anything better to do, she retreated to the kitchen. She had no idea what possessed her to answer someone so obviously baiting her with that sort of answer—some horribly masochistic sense of competition. She realized, startled, that it was masochistic. She had reacted like a tuning fork, immediately ringing out when he’d tapped her. She looked toward the door that separated the kitchen from the dining room, the single door out of the room, and wanted to run out of it. _What kind of man is that_ , she thought. _What the hell kind of man is that?_

She could hear the Demo from the dining room. “Yeh ought nae trouble the lassie, Frenchie. She’s liable ta slip something into yer food yeh won’t like. Might ruin our dinners as well.”

“Hey,” said Scout, swallowing loudly. “What did she say?”

The Spy smirked. “Our petite _Vipere_ has surprisingly low tastes.” He twirled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers and watched the liquid in it send legs along the glass. The Spy was not surprised to have provoked that response in her, nor was he surprised that RED would have sent a masochist. It had a certain elegance: they’d all been confined to the base for months, the tension growing, and finding a particular kind of woman was hard at the best of times. _Helen_ , he thought admiringly, _you wicked, wicked woman_. _Is she ignorant or just frustrated?_

He saluted the Administrator with his wineglass, catching the Sniper’s eye. His lover grinned—the flash of temper and the overworked response had been as good as a flag for them both.

“She said she’d rather blow a goat,” the Heavy replied.

The Scout laughed so hard he choked on his mouth full of chicken, spitting fragments across the plate and the scarred table. The Engineer pounded his back. “Easy now, kid.”

From the kitchen, the Cook yelled at the table. “You can get your own goddamn desserts.”

The Soldier got up, clearing his chair before anyone could respond to her. “I’ll help you, little lady.” He Soldier walked in again armed with an apple pie in each hand. “This is the USA. We love apple pies and every one of you foreign maggots will learn to love them, too.”

The Pyro grabbed at a pie pan as it passed, snagging the entire pie and sticking his fork into the middle while glaring at the table. His teammates let him have it and he proceeded to eat the entire pie quickly, arm curled protectively around the tin.

The pie, as it turned out, was quite good. When the mercenaries left the table, there were no leftovers.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Cook went to bed as soon as she’d finished cleaning the kitchen, dining room, and dishes, taking a knife with her. In her room, she locked the door and wedged the desk chair under it, resolving to buy an alarm the next time she was allowed in town. It took her a long time to fall asleep, the creaking noises made by the bed startling her into semi-coherence when she rolled over.

The mercenaries waited, exhaustion battling for their attention. When the Spy could hear the soft sound of her snores, he reported back to the living room.

“What in the Sam Hill are we supposed to do with that?” The Engineer’s flailing hand knocked his hard hat off his head with a crash, exposing the stubble of his shaved head. “They don’t let us get off base nearly often enough and now they’ve put a spare woman in the middle of the base like dangling candy in front of a room of hungry diabetics.” The Pyro handed his hard hat back to him wordlessly and sat back down in front of the fireplace.

“I agree,” the Medic said, leaning heavily against the mantle of the fireplace above the Pyro’s head. “One of us is liable to do something, and in the mean time she will ruin morale. We are a competitive group before this.” _Helen_ , he thought, _you’d better not have sent her for what I think you did, not without telling her._

The Sniper and Spy spoke nearly simultaneously. “Let the little Bird stay.” “I wish to keep the little _Vipere_.” They looked at each other, tension rising. The Spy managed to keep his amusement off of his face, but the Sniper knew him well enough to know how pleased he was that they appeared to be in competition. It was a tactic they’d used many times to divert attention from their relationship.

In the sudden silence, the rasp of a lighter was loud. The Pyro’s voice was scratchy with disuse. “I want more pies. Keep her.”

“Gentlemen, there is a solution.” The Spy steepled his fingers in front of him, elbows balanced on the arms of the armchair. “We could have a little competition.” He watched the Medic as he spoke—he’d never tired of needling the man. The Medic had appointed himself their handler early, and jumped into arguments, disagreements, and any sort of problem with a sense of self-possessed authority that the Spy found incredibly annoying. As he’d expected, the Medic immediately appeared annoyed, but the Demo was the first to speak, surprising everyone.

“Yeh bastards are all the same. Cannot ask the lassie, nae, we have ta settle it between us. Have yeh tried asking? Have yeh _ever_ tried asking?” The Demo snorted over the mouth of the bottle. “I expect yeh’ll both be paying her hazard pay in a week.” _The little thing needed all the help she could get_ , the Demo thought. He recognized the expression on both the Spy and Sniper’s faces, and pitied the poor girl.

The Scout shifted in his chair. “It ain’t like girls are hard to get. I’m sure she’ll want one of us.”

The Medic threw up his hands, letting them fall with a slapping sound against his thighs. “This will be a disaster.”

From his own chair, the Heavy sat forward. “Is a solution. Cannot little men share?” _Selfish little boys,_ he thought, _fighting over a new toy_. There were times he was glad not to be straight, not to be a part of their stupid competitions over women in bars.

“I don’t know how they do it in your country, big guy, but we don’t do that. You and Medic have your arrangement, but some of us don’t want an audience.” The Scout jiggled a leg. “Froggie here probably would, pervert that he is, but I wouldn’t.”

“Did not suggest _оргия_ , but would share with Medic.” If the Medic hadn’t already had the thought, he would soon. He knew his lover too well not to notice the tension in the man, not to have seen his eyes dart to her, his body turning toward the woman, to have seen his lover steal a glance at her breasts—all the little signs that the man seemed to only notice in others. _If only_ , he thought, then immediately stopped himself. The Medic was neither one nor the other, and nothing he could do would change it.

The Medic flushed. “Misha, discuss later. _Nicht f_ _ü_ _r andere_ !” _Do you not realize what is happening here_ , he begged silently. _We are talking about a woman who has been sent, unknowing, like bait to the wolf pit._

The Heavy chuckled at his partner’s embarrassment. The man was very interested—flushing, refusing to speak—he wondered how long it would take his lover to recognize the emotion. The Medic wouldn’t risk letting himself be exposed, wouldn’t even ask for what he so obviously wanted if he thought anyone was watching, his need for control making him hide from himself. “Very well.” _It will come out later_ , the Heavy thought, amused. _And, as always Klaus, you will be startled by it._

“I’d share with you two.” The Pyro made eye contact with both the Medic and the Heavy, his eyes skipping to them and away. “Don’t want to share with Spy and Sniper.”

The Sniper snarled. “As if I would share my catch with that man.”

The Spy rolled his eyes but said nothing. He was going to get even with the Sniper for that particular bit of theater later—there was such thing as being too expressive.

The Demo took a deep breath and sighed explosively. “Did yeh nae listen? We must ask the lassie what she wants. I don’t know what yeh think yeh know, but if yeh want ta know a lass’ passion, ye cannot parcel her up like a fresh kill.”

“And who, my dark Scot, would you share with?” The Spy’s eyes glittered.

The Demo shrugged, the abrupt movement displaying his temper. “How, Frenchie, do yeh think you’ll get her ta agree ta anything?”

“In the game of seduction, my friends, you must have a little patience.” _How many of you_ , the Spy asked silently, _have wondered what she has really been sent to do. How many of you realize that she may not know what she has been sent to do?_ The Medic had, from the expression on his face. The Spy considered the faces around him. _Myself, Bête, the Medic, and no other_ , he thought, not bothering to look at the Soldier. If he had been alone, he would have been laughing hysterically— _Helen_ , he thought, _this is rich even for you_.

The Demo wanted, very badly, to punch the Spy in the mouth for being a smug son of a bitch. The sneaky fucking peacock in his prissy suits needed to have sense, or at least some humility beat into him. If the bastard couldn’t disappear and stab him in the back, the Demo would have already picked that fight with the Spy, just to roll him in the mud and rip the clothes he was so ridiculously proud of.

The meeting broke apart, the mercenaries trickling out of the cooling room. The Soldier was left watching the embers, waiting for the rest of the mercenaries to go to bed. If they’d been watching, and he hoped they weren’t, they would merely have seen him slumped in an arm chair.

His thoughts circled like a hawk. He couldn’t let the Spy do whatever he planned to do—the girl seemed nice enough, and was definitely out of her depth here. He knew the rest of the mercenaries thought he was affably crazy, or maybe just crazy, and he hadn’t been able to help himself at the gate. Sometimes, he thought he was crazy. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was crazy.

 _The shit that comes out of my mouth_ , he thought, _is a mash of my old man and every stupid cheer the military beat into me_. _It’s a fucking disease_. _For awhile I meant it, and now I can’t stop doing it_.

“Hell,” he said. “How the fuck do I even get her to take me seriously enough to listen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack: Tom Waits, "Everything Goes to Hell"


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, the Soldier bounded into the kitchen at half past 6 am and stood, bouncing on the toes of his combat boots. The Cook was unloading mugs from a cabinet, her back to him, and he watched her strain on her toes to reach the shelves. _The baggy shirts aren’t doing her any favors_ , he thought, _but she is at work_. _Fuck. What’s under the shirt really isn’t any of my business._ The Soldier shook his head. There was no point going down that particular road, especially not if he planned on helping her deal with the sneaky, predatory Spy and Sniper. _I’m a better man than that_. The Soldier took a deep breath to quell his nervousness before speaking.

“Good morning,” he bellowed, and she dropped the mug in her hands, shattering it on the kitchen tiles. “You are looking quite nice today. Is that bacon I smell?”

She blinked up at the figure in fatigues, drying hair escaping her braid in fine wisps. “I… Yes, that’s bacon.” She bent to pick up the fragments of mug and he squatted down with her, reaching for fragments just out of her reach. _Jesus_ , she thought, _he’s a sneaky fucker when he wants to be_. _Why red fatigues? Why give a man who could be that sneaky a bright red shirt?_ _Like a bell on a cat_.

“I appreciate the good work, soldier,” he said. “You’ve done a good job of keeping an eye on that French bastard.” In a quieter tone, the Soldier added. “He’s up to something. Don’t trust him.”

The Cook froze, hands filled with mug fragments, and stared at his face. She had assumed the Spy and possibly Sniper were up to something—their expressions were just too similar and far too aggressive. The quiet tone from this loud, sullen man was startling. She wondered how bad what the Spy or Sniper were planning had to be, that the same man who’d tried to turn her away at the gate was now trying to warn her that something was wrong. As far as she could tell, he didn’t like her.

The Soldier smiled at her, then stood quickly and bellowed over her head. “We cannot let America down, soldier. Clean up that mess double time and get to breakfast.” He grabbed a platter of bacon and headed for the table. “Good soldiers run on their stomachs.”

The Cook watched as he efficiently set the table—his large, calloused hands placing the mismatched plates gently, lining up forks beside them, the earnest concentration he applied to arranging the objects on the table—then helped him finish carrying out a platter of scrambled eggs, a toaster, a pile of bread and several sticks of butter on little platters. He bent at the waist, giving the plates a last touch to line them up, before walking back to her. As they heard the other mercenaries stumbling toward breakfast, the Soldier leaned in to the Cook’s ear, lips and breath just brushing her earlobe and sending a chill down her back. “Be careful out there.”

She watched him walk out the door, wondering if he’d put his lips that close to her ear on purpose—had he been trying to raise goose bumps? The man seemed simple, if not downright stupid. What was going on under that helmet?

The Soldier sat at the head of the dining room table and started bellowing at his teammates. “You call that breakfast? I’ve eaten more than that for a snack.”

As he came in, the Spy hesitated near the Cook. His aftershave was spicy, a complex smell that hinted at leather, wood, and pepper that she noticed with a visible expression of pleasure as she inhaled. He watched it, guessing at the expressions she might make at other forms of pleasure. “Good morning, _Vipere_ ,” he said.

The pleasure faded from her face, leaving a wary expression. The Spy appeared to be self-satisfied, as if having won a victory, and she resisted the urge to make sure she was still dressed. “Nice aftershave.”

“I’m so glad you like it. May I have the French press?”

“Sure. Let me get that.” Her obedience was a matter of rote, she told herself. She was cooking, and someone asked her for supplies, nothing more. She realized where her thoughts were going and swore out loud. _Absolutely not_.

The Spy heard her, a brief vulpine smile crossing his face. He watched her ass as she retreated, waiting for her to notice. When she turned to come back, he could see her notice his expression and stiffen. He gave her a pleasantly blank expression in response to her scowl. “It is so nice to see a civilized method for making coffee. Did your people do this?”

“No, my people are too poor. I picked up my bad habits in restaurants.”

As he took the press from her, his hands brushed hers. His eyes dipped to her cold-hardened nipples. Her eyes followed his and she flushed. _Cold_ , she thought. _It’s just cold._ She ground her teeth. _Don’t you dare_ , she threatened silently, _think this is you_.

The Spy did not comment, merely gave her a secretive smile and turned to sit down, holding the loaded press carefully. When the Cook turned to retreat to the kitchen, the Sniper spoke.

“There’s no need for you to be in there. Come out here and eat with us, little Bird.” He elbowed the Scout until he scooted over, making a hole at the table. The Soldier, on the other side of the hole, got up to give her his chair.

“I didn’t know you had it in you, Solly,” the Engineer said, astonished. “We’ll all just have to be proper gentlemen, _won’t we_.” He glared around the table, meeting a variety of irritated and amused faces— _it is too goddamn early_ , he thought, _to play these kinds of games_.

The Cook caught the warning to the table. Annoyed, she snapped, “I’m not helpless. Solly, sit back down. I’ll sit on your lap.” He had to be the safest person in the room, the only person to warn her that the Spy was up to something, and it was annoyingly archaic to take someone’s chair on the merit of simply being female and in the room.

Under the eyes of every mercenary in the room, the Soldier sat down docilely and she perched on his knee. He didn’t say a thing, but she could feel his thigh flexing uneasily under her ass as he moved his plate over, the muscle twitching like the legs of a horse at the starting gate. The Soldier’s other hand hovered until she pushed it down on the arm of the chair. His fingers dug into the wood, knuckles white against his skin. He didn’t reach for anything on the table, wrapping his other hand around the arm of the chair.

She looked at his hands, confusion knotting her eyebrows— _it’s just a little touch_ , she thought. _Don’t you all have sisters or mothers?_ —then up at the table and the ring of startled and speculative glances. Beneath her, the Soldier’s leg shifted under her weight. His erection brushed her ass as she slid backward.

The Cook stood up so quickly she knocked over her mug of coffee. “I’ll just be... I’ll be... I left something on the stove.”

The Soldier blushed immediately, looking up at the ceiling. He hadn’t been able to help himself—the pliant, soft skin of her ass against his leg had been the first time he touched a woman in months. His fingers convulsed on the chair arms. _Great_ , he thought, embarrassed and frustrated _. She’ll run when she sees me coming, and I won’t be able to help her against whatever the hell the Spy and Sniper have in mind_. He absently reached down and repositioned himself, counting the ceiling tiles for distraction.

As the Cook fled the room, she heard the Scout’s voice, shaking with laughter. “You ought to be more careful where you point that thing, Solly. You might poke her eye out.”

The Demo replied for the Soldier, annoyed at the boy’s teasing. “Scooty, we’ve seen what yer packing. Yeh wouldn’t scare the lass a bit.”

“Hey, at least I’m not cockzilla over there. Heavy would probably turn the girl inside out.”

The Heavy’s eyes narrowed, and his voice held a dangerous rumble. “Little man is being rude. Is no reason to discuss these things where Cook can hear.” _No dignity_ , he thought, indignant. _They’re a pack of dogs_.

The Cook, cheeks flaming, slumped down the cabinets in the kitchen and sat with her back to the dining room. Preoccupied by embarrassment, she failed to hear the faint click of footsteps until the fabric of his pants brushed her arm. When she looked up, the Spy managed to make his face neutral, but not before she saw the speculation on it. She realized that her raised chin put her mouth inches from the crotch of his dark red slacks and scooted away. He took a single step back.

“I apologize. My teammates can be a bit crude, _Vipere_. We will behave ourselves for the next meal.”

He looked down at the flush as it disappeared into the vee of her shirt, catching a glimpse of pink lace before she clutched her shirt to her chest. The Spy offered her a hand, long fingers slightly curled in anticipation. “We will get you your own chair, and you will not have to encounter anyone’s lap. We are merely lonely here, and used to each other’s company.”

The Cook refused his hand, groping behind her for the counter and standing without losing eye contact. “I’m fine.” Goddamn every single one of them, including the smarmy bastard in front of her, whose satisfaction at her embarrassment could not be more obvious. The nerves of her skin were singing at her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to distract herself from the sudden, overwhelming need to be touched.  _Of all the fucking times_ , she thought furiously, _to be horny, it has to be right the fuck now. Jesus, do I have anything approaching common sense_?

 _No, of course not._ Her fingers twisted in their grip on the plaid of her shirt.

“But of course you are fine,” he said. “We will drag in a chair from the living room. The Americans and Australian feel bad that you must wait for us like a servant. They would like you to be a part of the group.”

 _If he says ‘servant’ like that one more time, I’m going to hit him_. “And you, Frenchie… Do you mind?” _Admit it_ , she demanded silently. _I know that look. Admit what you want, you slimy motherfucker_.

He smiled sweetly at her. “I have never minded being served, but it would make my teammates so happy if you came.”

A tingle swept her from scalp to toes and she gave a small, involuntary shiver which Spy noticed, his eyes growing heavy-lidded. “I promise, _Vipere_ , we will be on our best behavior for the next meal.”

His fingers curled up gracefully, and he walked from the room. She watched his ass in his slacks and wanted to take a shower. 

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

During breaks in the battle the next day, the RED team threw dice to determine where they would put her chair at dinner. Unsurprisingly, the Spy won one of the places. The Sniper won the other, with a slight of hand missed by everyone but the Spy. The cloaked Spy followed the Sniper to his nest and when they were alone, decloaked.

“I had no idea you were so good with your hands, _Bête_.” The Spy flexed his hands in his gloves to settle them and looked at the Sniper’s long fingers as they curled around the burled wood of the rifle butt. “We must play dice more often.”

The Sniper turned, putting a hand on his kukuri. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Sneak. Besides,” he said, grim expression breaking into a brief smile as he let go of the knife, “we usually just fuck.”

The Spy’s eyes slid down the Sniper, greeted with the same, knowledgeable look in his partner’s eyes. “Let me do the tracking this time,” the Spy said, looking at the long line of his partner’s legs in his jeans. “That one needs finesse. She is a little innocent. Or perhaps she just does not understand her desires.” He smiled at his lover, eyes dark. “Helen outdid herself. The girl is transparent and easily roused.”

The Sniper watched the Spy’s lips curving, lust electric along his skin. “She is.” The fabric of the Spy’s suit whispered as he moved, and the Sniper’s memory fed him the last time they’d been in this nest together, the Spy cloaking and walking over to kneel down in front of him. The Spy was ingeniously perverse, and insisted that the Sniper keep firing as he slowly, expertly sucked the Sniper’s cock, refusing to let him finish until he had sent five people to respawn. He realized his jeans were uncomfortable, the stiff cotton digging into him, and twitched his hips to resettle them.

“You will be amused to know,” the Spy said, catching the gist of the Sniper’s thoughts with satisfaction and a rising need of his own, “that our little _Vipere_ appears to respond to a bit of roughness.”

The Sniper grinned crookedly at the Spy. “Izzat so?”

“Oh yes. She asked if I was averse to being served today and shivered.”

The Sniper’s face blanked for a moment, then he shrugged. “A bit formal for my tastes, but better for both of us, then.” The Spy was the more formal of the two, the Sniper knew, and double-teaming her would mean endless, pointless little rules if the Spy had any say in the process. _As long as I don’t have to think up the rules on my own_ , the Sniper thought, _the whole formal process is fun enough to go along with_. The Spy would be worked up by it, pushing him out of the endless calculations he seemed make like others breathed. The Sniper snorted. “Too bad for Demo.”

“If the ‘lassie’ asked,” the Spy responded, “he would. Many of us have exotic tastes. Many more than you know, _Bête_.”

“If the little Bird does, too, this may work out well for us all.” The Sniper stared at the Spy, watching the skin around his eyes tighten with amusement and warning.

The Spy knew, given half a chance, the Sniper would be chasing her through the desert. The man was never more alive than when he was away from cities, tracking something through the night. The Spy had watched him sniffing the wind, hunched low to the ground to follow the faint traces of footprints, the mask of civilization falling away easily as he hunted. It was that feral part of the Sniper he liked—the easy way the man shed speech, clothing, and humanity. Howling, growling, snarling, glistening with sweat, the Sniper was an elemental force when he fucked.

“We cannot let you hunt her until we are sure, _Bête_ , unless you wish to pay her hazard.”

Turning back to the rifle propped against the window, the Sniper replied. “A good hunter is patient.”

“As is a good spy.”

The thunder of his rifle split the sudden silence and the Sniper leaned back briefly against the re-cloaked Spy, knowing the man would be there. “I have missed the hunt, Sneak.”

Butter-soft leather ghosted over his forearms as the Spy slowly backed away. “As have I.”

The Spy slunk out of the nest to the sound of Sniper’s sigh.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

At dinner, the mercenaries filed in quickly. The Soldier once again helped the Cook take the platters to the table, lingering behind her briefly as she put the finishing touches on one of the dishes. The flash and thunk of her knife was hypnotic, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to ease the buttons out of their holes in her shirt and lift her on top of the counter, whether she would cut him or drop the knife. He pulled himself from that line of thought with a great deal of effort, reminding himself for the thousandth time that he was not that kind of man, that he was there to help her and not to do any of the things he was currently trying not to think about. With a start, he spoke. “Do you have a preferred name, soldier?” _Jesus Christ_ , he thought, _I’m calling her a soldier again._

She paused, knife stilled over a pile of parsley. “We aren’t supposed to ask for names.”

He put a hand in the middle of his chest. “They call me Solly. Spy calls you viper, Sniper calls you little bird. What should I call you?” _God_ , he thought with a wince, putting his hand down. _Why don’t I just say ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane.’_

She turned, cocking her head. “Thank you for asking. You can call me whatever you like, as long as it’s polite.” The man in front of her seemed to be grappling with something—she could tell from some of the stolen glances that he had, at one point in time, been thinking something obscene, but that he was now thinking about something else. Whatever it was, it seemed to pain him.

The Soldier looked at her under his helmet. “You look like a rose to me, Red. I think I’ll call you Rose.” _That’s a little better_ , he thought. _Flowers are safe._

“That’s actually kind of sweet.” On impulse, the Cook reached for the Soldier’s helmet. He flinched, then stood stiffly and allowed her to tip it back. “Why are you still wearing your helmet?”

Beneath it, his eyelids flickered over his gray eyes nervously. He already had stubble, sandy brown on his cheeks and chin. She noticed the shadows under his eyes, hidden by the helmet, and the slight cleft in his chin. His nose had been broken, and leaned slightly to the right at the bridge. A few acne scars dotted a cheekbone, and a long scar beside one eye made his eyebrow crooked.

Her eyes were brown, he noticed—a ring of dark brown flecked with chocolate. A few very pale freckles dotted her nose and high cheekbones. Her lips were a pale, pale pink, sharply curved, and her face over-serious. He wanted to pick her up, put her on the counter, pull her jeans down, wrap her legs around his hips and … he cut the thought off by thinking about his old drill sergeant and PT. Cleaning latrines. Digging latrines. Anything.

She looked down. His hands kneaded the air, clenching and unclenching, and she stepped back.

“I think I’m making you nervous. Sorry.” She wondered what had frozen him in place—anger? Fear? She narrowed her eyes, then they opened wide. No, he was definitely thinking about sex. And it frightened him. Why would it frighten him?

“I’m just afraid of failing my mission.” _And I’m terrified I’m going to try to do something stupid_ , he added silently.

“What mission?”

Before she could finish the sentence, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek. _Just the cheek_ , he thought. _I can do this_. _I can help and not pick her up and do any of the things on my mind. I can be the better man and actually get to know her. For all I know, she doesn’t want to do anything with anyone here_.

She reached up to touch her cheek, smiling. “You’re an odd man, Solly. But a sweet one.” _What possessed you_ , she thought, _to do such a sweet, old-fashioned thing. Especially when the look on your face screams sex and how uncomfortable you are_.

He turned and dashed into the dining room. When she emerged from the kitchen carrying the last platter, the only seat left put her between the Spy and Sniper. She laid the platter on the table and sat down, uncomfortable. The Engineer was the first to speak. “Miss, could we get our favorite foods for our birthdays?”

“Huh? Yes, if everyone will write down their favorite meals and birthdays, I will try to make them a special meal for their day.” _Wow, he’s polite,_  she thought with a twinge of remembered guilt, _much more than I expected after the first day_.

Beside her, the Spy filled her glass with pale yellow wine. “It would be a shame not to pair poached salmon with a little wine. It is, unfortunately, an American vintage…”

From the head of the table, the Soldier yelled, “And we make damn good booze!”

The Spy continued, “…but it is acceptable enough.”

The Cook watched as he filled his glass and passed the wine to the Sniper on her other side, arm brushing her as he reached across. The Sniper polished off the bottle into his glass, and the Demo pulled a bottle from his lap and filled his glass before offering it around the table. No one took him up on it. She wondered what was in the bottle. The man seemed cheerful enough: a functioning drunk, perhaps, but not an angry one.

“To our _Vipere_. It is good to be treated with fine food.” The Spy raised his glass, amusement making small crinkles near his eyes, and the table echoed him, a ring of water, wine, and moonshine glinting in the overhead light.

The Cook raised hers finally, saluting the table. “Thank you all, and I hope you enjoy my work.” She wondered briefly why they were celebrating. It was an ordinary enough meal, but perhaps they didn’t know how to cook. The mess she’d cleaned up had been mostly things with cheese and meat grease. Maybe they just hadn’t been eating a well-rounded menu. The Cook looked down at the plate before taking a swallow of the glass in front of her. The wine slid down her throat and she closed her eyes against the tart bite. “My god, this is good. And it’s perfect for the salmon.” She turned to the Spy. “Are you now or have you ever been a _sommelier_?”

He chuckled, running long fingers through his dark hair to pull the strands from the mat caused by sweat and his mask. “ _Non_. Merely the desire to enjoy life, and a misspent youth with many, many vintner’s daughters.”

Behind her, she heard the Sniper mutter under his breath, “and not a few of their sons.”

She blinked, but the Spy did not see rejection, merely surprise. Instead of glaring angrily at the Sniper, he gave the Sniper a long, slow wink over the Cook’s head. The Sniper looked back, levelly, and took a large swallow of his own wine. “Well, well,” he mouthed over the Cook’s head. “Interesting.”

The Cook, realizing something was happening over her head, turned. The only thing she saw was Sniper taking a bite of his salmon. Across the table, the Scout watched them both closely. The Heavy turned a jaded eye to Medic, teasing him. “Should play more dice, Doctor. Will have to practice after dinner.”

The Cook looked over, confused. As dinner went on, the wine in her cup never quite managed to disappear. She stopped drinking it after a light buzz, suspicious, but didn’t manage to catch anyone refilling it. Beside her, the Sniper talked about hunting, leading them to a conversation about preparing wild game. The Heavy and Medic argued over opening moves in chess, debating various counter moves before moving into an increasingly intense conversation in German and Russian that the Cook could not follow. The Scout ate three pieces of salmon before moving on to the green beans, talking animatedly around heaping mouthfuls of food about the seafood in Boston.

The Soldier got dessert from the kitchen for her, noticing how animated her speech had become and correctly interpreting it as drunk—certainly enough to interfere with her coordination. He quashed a flare of worry. The Spy was doing an imitation of a cat in cream, and the Sniper looked just as self-assured. Neither were a good sign for the Cook sitting between them, who seemed to be completely oblivious to the trouble she was in. On his second trip out of the kitchen, he saw the Sniper mouth something at the Spy that he could not read, and he realized he was starting to really worry about her. Had she not heard him? The Spy was up to something, no doubt something that involved sex. He sat down to a slice of cake, watching the Cook carefully.

The Cook, noticing Pyro’s reaction to sweets, had made three tall chocolate cakes. The Pyro’s eyelids fluttered as he took the first bite of his cake, and his scarred hands fell limp for a second against the table. The Scout, eyeballing him, took a first bite and paused with a reverent silence. When the Spy handed her a slice of the nearly black cake, his hands lingered against hers. On her other side, the Sniper leaned in, making a long line of warmth against the other side of her body. She could feel their breath on her scalp, tickling the fine hairs escaping her braid.

A wash of warmth trickled down her body and she closed her eyes. When they both withdrew, she felt a momentary sadness followed by a moment of cold sanity. What the hell was she doing? How drunk was she?

When she pushed her chair back, the Spy placed his hand over hers on the table and the Sniper echoed him after a short pause. “It’s only dinner, _Vipere_. You do not have to run away from your own food.”

Their grips were gentle, but she was not fooled. “I should… I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

Before they let go, both men squeezed her hand a fraction into the threshold of pain, and she gasped, nipples hardening painfully. Her knees were weak as she turned, making her wobble. She ran from the room on unsteady knees.

As she fled, she heard the Spy say, “Well, gentlemen, what do you think?”

The Cook locked herself in the bathroom of her room, crying in frustrated humiliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Leonard Cohen, "Everybody Knows"


	5. Chapter 5

The Cook leaned against the white bathroom counter, hiccupping with the tail end of sobs, her back to the wall mirror. She’d pushed her glasses off and they lay on the counter beside her, speckled with tears. _Goddamn it_ , she thought, _how the hell am I going to get my job done under these conditions?_ _And what the hell is wrong with me that I’m reacting this strongly?_ She’d been in a handful of kitchens with men who ranged from mildly insinuating to men who’d humped her whenever she’d bent over to pick anything up. She’d had fist fights over it without running like this, like a child running from the monster in the closet.

She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes with a growl of frustration. It was hard enough working with this many men without being so easy to upset. They would be on her like wolves and she’d all but put up a sign: _masochist here_.

Every time she let that part of herself emerge, it destroyed her life. A drink, two drinks, she’d relax enough to let go, and she’d find herself picking fights with strangers, or people she knew, a flare of attraction from working closely with someone boiling over. She’d find herself begging them to hit her, putting their hands around her neck, daring them to fuck her. Men she’d supervised, women she was working with, people that she knew better than to touch: she wanted them to do something, anything, to reduce the pressure behind her eyes, the itch in her skin, the need to escape from herself, to fuck until she physically couldn’t move. The next day, without fail, her job was ruined. Her relationship was over. Her friends weren’t talking to her. The people at the bar she’d finally let herself visit were telling stories.

She was an urban legend in several cities by now.

It had been a year since she’d let herself get near anyone, let herself chance that destructive cycle. She could not believe she’d been stupid enough to hope that she could take this job, that the isolation and self-control would help her avoid another episode. As her hiccups died down, she leaned against the counter, cradling her throbbing head. _Maybe_ , she thought, _if I just go immediately to bed every night and cry hysterically, I can avoid doing something really stupid_. _Maybe I can avoid doing someone really stupid_.

“Miss? Miss Cook?” Someone knocked gently on the door.

“Go away.” She couldn’t stand to look at any of them, to have to see them lose respect for her. _If they have any left_ , she thought darkly.

“Cook, it’s just me. Engie.” He leaned gently against the door, staring at the wood. The Engineer could hear faint hiccups from the other side of the door—it was clear she’d been crying. Her voice was thick and breathy.

“What do you want, Engie?” She scrubbed her glasses with the tails of her flannel, smearing tears across them with an annoyed grunt. The Cook reached for the towel and absently rubbed at the lenses, concentrating on the small task to avoid having to think about anything else.

“We should talk, Cook.”

She froze for a moment, then responded. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“Well, I do, and you should really hear it.”

The Cook glanced at herself in the mirror. Her face was red, her eyes were red, her hair was red, her lips were quivering and anyone seeing her would know she had been crying. “Go away.”

“No, Miss, you really do need to hear this.”

The Cook scrubbed the tears off her face with the towel. “Fine. Give me a minute.” In the mirror, she looked at herself. “No,” she murmured. “I can’t let them see me this way.”

“What was that, Miss?”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she shrieked. In the mirror, she made her lip stop quivering. “I can be angry about this,” she muttered, staring at herself in the mirror. “This is worth getting angry about. Goddamn it, have I really been lonely long enough to be such a fucking easy mark?”

When she opened the door, the Cook had worked herself into a fine rage. “What is so goddamn important, Engie?”

When the door opened, the room was full. Every single mercenary in the base was sitting on her bed, or rifling through her bureau, or sitting in her chair, or leaning against her wall. She spun on her heel, grabbing for the bathroom door. If the Engineer hadn’t grabbed it with his metal hand, she would have slammed and locked it. She tugged at the doorknob helplessly, then kicked the Engineer in the shin when he wouldn’t let go. He winced, but kept holding the door. She wound down under the collective stares of the men in her room, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to punch someone or have another bout of hysterics. When she got herself under control, she was left with rage.

“What do you want?” The Cook balled her hands into fists held flat at her side. Her shoulders squared, and she made herself stare around the room, daring someone to turn it into a fist fight. A small, rational part of her mind pointed out that even this, too, was masochistic, that even the smallest man in the room outweighed her by at least fifty pounds of muscle, and that if they took her up on it, she’d be in the hospital for months.

Some part of herself hoped they would, that they would save her from the lust that so closely followed being ashamed to look them in the eye.

“I think that, _Vipere_ , is obvious.” The Spy pushed off against the wall by her door. “I would rather be more subtle, but our friends Demo and Engie yelled until we all agreed to come talk like this.” He sneered at them both, in turn.

“Miss Cook,” the Engineer said, looking down at the top of her head, the part wandering the curve of her skull. “I told you we were lonely and there would be problems.”

“ _Fräulein_ ,” the Medic interrupted, his arms folded across his chest, “your presence leaves us with a bit of a dilemma.”

The Demo raised his hands in the air and dropped them. “Would yeh just ask the lassie already?”

“Miss Cook, what else would you want to do?” The Engineer shifted from foot to foot, then took a breath and made eye contact. “How much else might you want to do?”

The mercenaries in the room stilled, all eyes on the Cook. She paled, backing up until she hit the wall and fumbled behind her trying to get back to the bathroom. It was like one of those horrible nightmares—she’d come to work naked, in front of all the men she managed, and she had no idea until someone pointed it out and they all laughed. It was like every bad night in a kitchen, every night the men around her had turned, eerily as if of one mind, and tried to beat her authority down with harassment.

“What? You don’t mean…. I can’t.” she said. Her breath caught in her throat. “This is not a good idea. This is a bad idea and I can’t do this and you can’t expect me to put up with because you don’t understand and I have to work here and—” She realized she was babbling, hysteria rising with her voice, and shut her mouth hard, biting her tongue in her hurry.

“Miss, we kill each other for a living all day long. We can’t age until the company lets us go. We’re barely allowed into town, and we can’t get to know anyone else because they’ll notice we don’t age. Do we look like a normal group of men? Does this look like a normal situation?” The Engineer raised his free hand in a shrug and looked around before his eyes settled back on hers.

The Cook started to hyperventilate, eyes wide and rolling around the room like a trapped animal.

“Ah, excellent. She’s going to faint. This is the best approach.” The Spy hissed at the Engineer. “A little wine, a touch of a push, and she would have been flat on her back.”

“Let me through.” The Medic pushed his way between the Demo and Engineer. “ _Fräu_ , you must breathe normally. Count with me. In-2-3-4 and out-2-3-4….”

The Cook slumped to the floor and put her head between her knees, fingers laced behind her head.

The Medic crouched down to rub circles between her shoulder blades. “In and out. It will pass.”

“That’s awful nice, Nursie,” snorted the Engineer. “Don’t let her see the saw until you get her in the surgery.”

The Medic glared up at him, violence on his face, then looked down at the Cook’s huddled form. “It will pass,” he repeated gently. “Count the breaths.”

When the Cook raised her face, it was the color of paper. “What, exactly, do you all want?”

The Sniper leaned forward from his seat on her bed. “You,” he snarled, “screaming yourself hoarse.”

The room spun for a moment, and she genuinely thought she might faint. It was a living nightmare. She was going to wake up any second to the alarm for her shift at …. She realized she couldn’t remember her last shift. The Cook put her hands flat on the floor and stared at the concrete between her knees. She was awake and this was happening and she was about to make a complete idiot out of herself. She was about to make a complete idiot out of herself and she would be stuck with the consequences in front of that goddamn smug Spy and the whole cast of angry assholes.

 _And of course_ , she thought dully, _this is a great time to be ridiculously, dripping wet_. _Sometimes_ , _I really fucking hate myself._   _I hate every fucking thing about being a fucking masochist._

The Spy made a cutting gesture at the Sniper. “We have agreed to share. We have our own… interests….” He paused, looking down the blade of his nose at her. “You respond well enough, and it would not unduly interfere with your work.”

The Medic’s hand on her back stilled. “We are not all animals. Some of us will take the no. And the rest will learn to take it.” He glared at the Sniper, who smiled nastily and turned to the Cook.

“She doesn’t want to say no. Been lonely there, little Bird? It’s hard to find—,” he leaned forward on his knees from his seat on her bed, hooking two long fingers up in a come-hither, “good company.”

The Cook could distantly feel another flush climbing her cheeks as the humiliation of her position sent another wave of warmth through her. Beside her, she felt the Medic lean in slightly, breath held. “I… fuck you!” The Cook stared at the Sniper. “Fuck you!”

He smirked and laced his fingers in on his knee. “That, little Bird, was a strong response to an innocent question. A bit telling, wasn’t it?” Something about her, kneeling as she was on the floor, reminded him of that moment just before he released an arrow, the deer looking at him and waiting for the shaft.

The Engineer sighed. Both the Spy and the Sniper were behaving with the same predictable, stupid arrogance that made them nearly impossible to work with, and embarrassing to be seen with in public. The poor girl looking up at them all from the floor had no idea what was coming, or she would have pushed past them all and run out into the desert. Or at least have brought her knives with her.

“Well, Miss, the good news is that you don’t have to stay. We can just tell the office we didn’t like your cooking or something.” The Engineer let go of the door. That poor girl was about to get fucked, and not, if the twitchy expression on the Sniper’s face was any guide, gently. The Spy was equally intent, and the Engineer noticed with an irritated surge, appeared to be downright possessive. _Neither of ‘em is interested in the girl’s opinion on the matter. Except,_  he thought, _as a way to humiliate her further_. He wished, not for the first time, both for the comfort of his wife and to be a few hundred miles away, on a wooden porch, watching the sun go down. But she was gone, and he was here, in the middle of nowhere, watching two grown men act like dogs with a bone. The Engineer sneered at them, then looked down and regretted it at the lost expression on her face. He wanted to wrap her up in a blanket and put her to bed.

He wanted to climb in with her, to get the chance to hold someone again. His eyes slid away from her, from the whole room.

The Spy chuckled. “And where, dear Engineer, would she get another offer like this?” The Engineer’s response amused him—this one needed power, not a cuddle, and the man was probably thinking about his dead wife again. If he’d measured the woman on the floor correctly, she had very little experience and a great deal of frustration. _Touchy, needy, and vulnerable_ , he thought, biting the corner of his lower lip to combat the trill of his nerves. _How perfect_.

“How are you feeling,” the Medic asked her, watching the color start to come back to her face. She was still panting, he noticed with very nearly clinical dispassion, but slowly enough to permit consciousness. “We can leave.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” the Sniper said. “You can leave. I’m staying.” He wanted to snarl at them all—he was not leaving, not while she crouched on the floor with that look on her face that made him want to tear her clothes off and make her keep crying.

“As will I,” said the Spy. “I would hate for something awful to happen to our little _Vipere_.” The thrumming tension in the Sniper was, as always, fascinating. The man looked as if he wanted to eat the girl, not just fuck her, and the Spy could not wait to watch the Bushman at work.

“ _Fräu_ , do you want us to go?” The Medic’s voice was soft.

In her neck, her pulse jumped as she stared silently at the Sniper. She wanted to punch him right in his smug face. _No, you don’t_ , said the rational part of her brain. _What you want to do is get down on your knees and beg for sex_. Her entire body felt like it was on fire.

“ _Fräu_ , do you need us all to go?” The hand on her back was still gentle, and not helping her in the slightest, the warm circles adding yet another layer of prickling heat to the warmth under her skin. She was seconds from simply dropping to her hands and knees and begging, broken, for someone to do something. The Cook closed her eyes. _No_ , she thought, _I have at least a little pride_. _Or if not pride, I can at least be angry_. Anger was a comfortable emotion, an emotion that she could use to keep herself off her knees.

“I need to talk to the Sniper.” The Cook found herself estimating the number of steps it would take to get close enough to punch him in his smug mouth for being right and so goddamn happy about it.

“Very well. Out, everyone!” The room emptied and the Medic lingered in the door, staring at the Spy.

“You will bring her to the surgery later. Do not let the _tier_ have his way.”

“Of course, of course.” The Spy waved a gloved hand absently at the Medic. “Go.” The girl was left standing, uncertain, beside her bathroom door, the tracks of tears on her face and her lips still swollen and red. She reached across herself as he watched, holding her arm with her other hand, every movement telegraphing uncertainty, even fear.

He was already hard, and, from the line of the Sniper’s pants, he wasn’t alone. The Spy smiled. This was his favorite game, this little game—the reluctant, inexperienced figure who wanted, needed him to hurt and to fuck and to make her scream.

When the door closed, the Cook jumped. The Spy, watching her, blinked slowly. _Too late_ , he thought, _for escape now_. _Now you’re just prey_.

The Spy let himself circle her, seemingly studying the walls of the room and drifting closer to her. He sniffed, the role settling on him easily—tonight, he’d be displeased, even somewhat harsh, but still the voice of sweet reason compared to the Sniper. From the look on the Sniper’s face, he was struggling not to jump on the girl and rip her clothes off.

“There is not much in the way of tools here, but our _Vipere_ would probably die of shock if we played hard tonight.”

“No, Sneak, this one can play hard. Can’t you, little bird?” The Sniper was careful, oh so careful, riding the line between the nearly manic desire to hear her scream and the knowledge that he had to maintain some distance, some barrier that would allow him to do just enough to make her get that lost, glossy-eyed look as she hung somewhere between agony and orgasm. It had been too long.

The Cook stood, rooted to the spot by the surprised fear of being so easily guessed and the poisonous stir of arousal. Goddamn him, the last year of celibacy, and her infernal curiosity—what were they like? What was at the end of all the tension she could feel, making the air snap and bite? She took a deep breath, staring at the Sniper.

The Sniper closed his eyes and took off his yellow shades, placing them on the nightstand, then patted the bed between his legs. “Here, little Bird,” he said softly. “Come perch next to me.”

Behind her, the Spy breathed on her neck, breaking her out in goose flesh. “Yes, _Vipere_ , go to our _Bête_.”

When the Cook finally moved, the Spy put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her—warm, firm, soporific. It was all she could do to remember that she was angry. She was exposed, and whatever idiocy she got up to that night would make her life impossible.

“Good, _Vipere_.” The Spy walked beside her, his voice a smooth, warm baritone.

As soon as she was close enough, her arm drew back to punch the Sniper in the face. She had to maintain something—some core of resistance, some backbone with which to push back against the urge to rip her clothes off and beg to be fucked. As the Cook started forward with the punch, which the Sniper didn’t bother to dodge, the Spy clicked his tongue and bent her arms backward, pulling them hard.

“Bad _Vipere_. Naughty, naughty girl.” This too, he knew, was a part of the game—she was struggling to put up resistance, struggling against the urge to submit, and they would crush it until there was nothing left but obedience, her body moving pliantly under their hands.

Over her shoulder, he looked down at the Sniper. “Whatever shall we do to our little wild thing?”

In response, the Sniper sat up slightly to draw his kukuri. “Why, we’ll have to skin it, of course, to see where it keeps its claws.”

In the Cook, something stirred, and she snapped at the Sniper, teeth clacking together. Her heart pounded, breath stuttering in her chest. She wanted to bite, and to hurt, and to see if they could fight back, if they were good enough to be allowed to hurt her, self-possession dissolving under the urges she’d spent the last year denying.

The Spy, looking down at her as she snapped, was briefly startled. He would not have assumed she had the kind of instinctual, feral response she’d just shown. This woman, whoever she was, would make a good toy for them both.

The Sniper slowly, teasingly, brought the kukuri forward, inviting her to slice herself against it as she struggled. The Cook watched the tip as he laid it against the open vee of her shirt and shivered.

The Spy grinned over her shoulder at the Sniper. As always, the man did not disappoint: watching her snarling, snapping face grow calm as she realized the blade was there, and then seeing her shiver, feeling her body move, involuntarily, against his. For a dizzying moment, the Spy was not sure who he wanted to fuck more, the woman he was holding or the man in front of him.

“Shouldn’t move, little Birdie,” the Sniper said, “or we’ll do a bit more skinning than we meant to.”

The Cook stood up on her tiptoes to get away from the blade, stretched trembling against the Spy as the kukuri dipped and twisted, the blade sliding between button and hole. The button popped from her shirt and hit the concrete floor with a faint clink.

“That’s one button,” the Sniper teased. “What’s under that skin of yours?”

Behind her, the Spy rubbed himself against her ass.

“Two buttons. The little Birdie wears pink lace. How adorable.”

Again, the Spy rubbed himself against her.

“Three buttons. Sneak, do you think she’s wet?”

A chuckle ghosted past her ear. “If not, she will be.”

“Four buttons. The shirt is almost gone.”

The Cook’s eyes opened wide, white showing all around her irises, her skin tingling with an arousal that was almost terror.

“You’ll make her faint, _Bête_ .” The Spy’s tone was slyly scolding, a game the Sniper recognized with amusement: _naughty, naughty. Mustn’t do it, bad boy._

“Not this one,” the Sniper responded. “She won’t faint, but she will be nice and woozy.” Her breath was loud and ragged, a cornered, feral sound.

“Last button, and let’s see what’s under her skin.”

The Sniper used the kukuri to nudge aside the edges of her skirt and traced the edges of her breasts. “Look at those pretty things. I believe we should make our Birdie sing.”

“Unless, of course, she wants us to stop, _Bête_ . Do you, _Vipere_? Do you want this to stop?”

The Cook made a whining noise in the back of her throat. “No,” she whispered, watching the glittering tip of the blade, a small nick near the top promising pain. She could hear herself panting, trapped against the warm wall of the Spy’s chest, could feel the Spy’s smug enjoyment. A small part of her wondered how they looked, what someone watching would think. She wondered what the rest of the mercenaries were doing, how this would end, how far they would take it. She shifted against the Spy, rubbing him, goading him to respond.

“Why _Bête_ , I believe you were right about the _Vipere_.” There was a mocking note of surprise in his voice.

“I see you grinding yourself against her there, Sneak. Don’t get too excited yet.”

“Fear not, _Bête_. I am not so easy, as you know.” Anticipation curled through him, raising the hairs on his arms in a wave of electricity.

The Sniper laughed and grabbed the Cook’s hips, pulling her forward. “Ah, but we haven’t skinned our little Birdie yet. Shall we cut off these jeans, Sneak?” He could see the pleasure on his lover’s face, the hunger stripping the man’s need to be civilized away from him and making them mirrors of each other—the Spy clung to his effete, civilized façade as if it could save him from the bestial self the Sniper knew lay under his suit and the urbanity it represented. It was a slow seduction, stripping the civility from his lover in a contest that risked his wildness against his lover’s need for control. The risk made it irresistible—the woman, as with any woman they shared, was merely bait.

“Too long, _Bête_.” The Spy’s breath was shallow, sharing the rhythm of the woman between them.

The Sniper deftly unhooked the button and pulled down the zipper of the Cook’s jeans as she sagged in the Spy’s arms.

“ _Vipere_ , _Vipere_ ,” the Spy murmured in her ear. “You cannot escape now.”

With several hard jerks, the Sniper pulled down jeans and underwear, yanking at her shoes and socks until the Cook stood mostly naked against the clothed Spy. She could feel her lips sliding against themselves between her legs, a warm tide that sapped the strength from her bones.

“I think I’ll keep the bra,” said Sniper, standing up. “I like a trophy.”

He picked the kukuri up from the bed and carefully worked its tip between the Cook and the bra, then pulled back, nicking the Cook and cutting the bra in half. The Sniper stuck his free hand out, capturing the first well of blood between her breasts and smearing it on the exposed vee of his chest. “Let her go, Sneak, so we can finish skinning her.”

The Spy pulled the bra down her arms and stepped back. The Cook stood shivering, arms restless at her sides.

“I believe, _Bête_ , you wanted to go first?”

“I did. Come here, little bird. Crawl over here.” The Sniper sat down on the edge of the bed, long legs spread. Behind her, the Spy pressed her shoulders until she knelt down, and took her first hesitant crawl forward.

“Good  _Vipere_.” Beside her, the Spy kept pace, unbuttoning his vest and discarding it with a shrug. When she reached the Sniper, she sat back and waited. The Sniper grabbed the back of her hair, pressing her nose to the crotch of his jeans.

“Little Birdie,” he crooned, “do you know any tricks?” He unzipped, arcing slightly off the bed to wriggle his jeans down. “Show me a trick, little Birdie, and I’ll give you a treat.”

The Sniper’s cock stood long and straight, veins crawling up to a tapered head. The Cook’s eyes unfocused and her head lolled as she imagined it inside her. The Sniper leaned forward and casually slapped her.

“Focus, little Birdie.”

The Cook came up on her knees, and took his cock in her hands before sliding it into her mouth. Above her, the Spy leaned over to kiss the Sniper, who grabbed a handful of her hair and thrust at first shallowly into her mouth, then deeper, until he tapped the back of her throat. Taking a hard grip on her hair, he forced her head down on his cock. The Spy broke the kiss to look down at her, watching her flush and drool, watching her look up at them both. The sight of it—her red face, helpless, airless—the Spy struggled to remain watching, waiting for her reaction to add another layer of sensation.

“The little _Vipere_ has her mouth full.” The Spy could see the tension in his partner’s body, could see how close the man was to orgasm.

“That she does. And…” The Sniper moaned before letting her pull her head back and breathe, gagging, “we’re going to fill her up. Don’t be shy, Sneak.”

Above her, she heard a wry chuckle. “I do not intend to, _Bête_. It is just a pretty sight.”

The Cook’s cunt squeezed and she drew a shaky breath, the fear flipping from panic to arousal like a switch. The Spy’s cock throbbed—that had been what he was waiting for, that little shaky breath that told him she was ready for more. “Pull her up further on the bed.”

The Sniper hooked his arms under her armpits and pulled her on top of him, then turned her around to watch the Spy strip. The Spy smiled, a wicked, lazy expression, and slowly put his hands to his shirt, watching her respond. The crisp shirt opened button by button over a triangle of dark hair, and the long lines of his stomach. The Spy smoothed his hands over his chest, down to his crotch and cupped himself in his slacks before shrugging out of the shirt. He stepped out of his shoes and socks, then put his hands to his belt. At the sound of the tongue being pulled out of the leather, the Cook bit her lip.

 _No surprises there_ , the Spy thought. _I’ve never met one that didn’t_. The Spy smiled again and tossed his belt at the Sniper. “Well, we have found one toy.”

The Sniper’s laughter shook the Cook cradled against his chest. “Who doesn’t like a nice spank?” He rubbed himself against her. “Would you like that, little Birdie? Would you like us to give you a spanking for being such a wild little beastie?”

The Cook reached behind herself to stroke the Sniper, wordlessly, as the Spy stepped out of his pants. The Spy parted her legs, reaching in to run a finger along her lips. “I believe our little _Vipere_ is wet,” he said to his lover. “I’ll entertain her a bit while you get undressed.”

The Sniper pushed her off his chest and stood. As he stripped, the Spy grabbed the belt and pushed the Cook face down into the bed. “Ass up, _Vipere_.”

When she complied, he snapped the belt together to watch her jump, a convulsive little movement that made him immediately think of pushing himself into her. It would be good, but better after she was bruised and oh-so-sensitive. “ _Bête_ , I believe I will take this first.”

She shivered—knowing the belt was coming but unable to see when, her skin already flush with anticipation, tingling, the little hairs standing up, the anticipation of pleasure sending fluttering fingers through her.

The Sniper watched the Spy as he undressed, watched the man’s pupils dilate, and his body yearning toward the figure on the bed, swept up in desire. The Sniper scooted around the bed in front of her, eyes on the Spy, the high flush on both the man’s cheeks and the enraptured expression on his face. “I’ll just keep her mouth entertained. If she does a bad job, I’ll let you know.”

“Ah yes, _Bête_ ,” the Spy’s voice was a soft sigh. “We must punish bad work.”

The Cook looked up, tracing the symbols on the Sniper’s upper body with her eyes: a mix of Cyrillic and Gaelic, a great snake coiled around one arm from elbow to shoulder, rendered in the dun, cyan, and umber daubs of the desert. He saw her looking and laughed, running his fingers down his chest. “Some of the friends I’ve made over the years were a little suspicious. Think of these like a passport, or maybe a kind of ID.”

He reached for the Cook, sliding a hand under her jaw and lining her mouth up with his cock. As the Sniper slid his cock between her lips, the belt licked her ass the first time with a sharp crack and the Cook gasped, the pain flooding through her in tingling shards. She curled her fingers in the cotton sheets and arched her back, the cock in her mouth throbbing in sympathy. She froze, overwhelmed, the last year of aching, perfect need screaming in her head— _more_.

“Concentrate, Birdie, or we’ll stop being so nice.” The Sniper put one hand behind his head and wrapped the other in her hair, setting the rhythm. His gaze wandered down to the sweating, tangled mass of hair in his hand, the sight of her head moving and the wet, warm friction as her head bobbed. He forced himself to keep the rhythm slow and steady, to tease himself with her mouth.

At each snap of the belt, her ass turned redder and redder, and she started to writhe, trying to avoid the leather as it came down, the body’s instinctive response to pain. The Sniper’s hand on her hair kept her still, fingers tightening in delicious pressure against her scalp. She could feel herself, dripping with sweat and wet, and achingly empty—her whine was muffled by the cock in her mouth.

As his balls drew tight, she could feel Sniper starting to throb, the tiny little vibrations that told her he was seconds from orgasm. He pulled her head up, looking at her regretfully. “Oh very good little Bird, but I won’t come yet.”

Behind her, the Spy gave a particularly vicious strike and she finally started to cry, the tears stinging her eyes. The Sniper’s eyes grew dark and he smiled down at her. “I’m going to enjoy fucking your bruised ass and making you cry again.”

Her mouth was a wet oh of surprise, lips fat from friction, and the tears made his hand tighten again, wrapping her hair around it until she made a startled cry that he felt to him like a caress.

Over her head, he asked, “So how wet is she?”

The Cook felt the Spy’s fingers stroke the outside of her lips and chased them, helplessly. “Very, _Bête_. You may go first.”

Using her hair as a handle, the Sniper pulled her up and licked the cut on her chest, making it sting. She whimpered, eyes wide, the sound making him shiver. “Back up on your knees, little Bird. Spy, get her hands.”

The Spy was happy enough, the Sniper noticed wryly, to obey when it pleased him. He could see the man still struggling to keep a slow pace, not to simply push her down and fuck her violently. It pleased him, as it always pleased him, to see the Spy working so hard not to give in. The Sniper slid down, positioning himself so that he just touched her lips, that slick warmth just teasingly close.

The Spy knelt behind her, capturing her arms and pulling her elbows up painfully behind her, eliciting another of those breathy little noises. With a grunt, the Sniper rammed himself into her and the Spy pulled her arms back, bending her between them so that every thrust battered her g spot.

The Cook screamed as the Sniper set up a brutal rhythm, the wet smack of his hips against her inner thighs drowned in the sounds coming out of her throat. Every thrust stung against the welts on the ass and thighs, pushing against that irresistible spot hard enough to be pain, a drowning welter of sensations that made it impossible to do anything but scream, hoarsely. Her eyes rolled up, wide and wet, to the ceiling, and the Spy bent her back until her head was on his shoulder, lolling loosely as the muscles in her thighs worked atop the Sniper.

The Sniper ground his teeth, trying to hold his orgasm off just a little longer against the sound of the woman between them screaming, against the muscular contractions that were milking him senseless. “Oh fuck, Sneak,” he panted. “You should feel her rippling against me. Hurt her some more.”

The Spy pushed her head to the side with his and bit her, teeth grinding into the side of her neck as her eyes rolled up in the back of her head.

“Fucking Christ. Pull her back more when you do that.”

The Spy pulled her, bowing her back until she nearly fell backward, and the Sniper sped up. The Cook made a gurgling noise and started a breathy moan. “Please please please please….”

“She begs. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh…“ The Sniper gave one last thrust and dug his fingernails into her hips, shouting. “FUCK.”

The feel of him spasming in her pushed her into an orgasm so hard she thought she would faint. Her cunt clamped down on him, the peak causing her to jerk in Spy’s arms and cry out wordlessly as the ripples spread through her body.

The Spy was inches from orgasm himself, from the sight of the Sniper coming and the feel of the woman between them going limp. _I was right_ , he thought. This one had definitely not had much experience, and by her exquisitely sensitive reaction, would be a lastingly fun little toy.

She slumped limply in Spy’s arms as he chuckled. “My turn.”

The Spy yanked up on her arms as she tried to get her shaky legs to bear up under her weight, watching her scrabble for balance, her breath sharp with pain. The Sniper slid out from under her to retake his place in front of her.

The Spy looked down the line of her body to the slick, deep red folds of her lips, swollen from the pounding she’d just gotten from the Sniper. He wanted to push her further, to make her make those pained little sounds while he was inside her, to feel her squirming mindlessly on top of him. “I’ve always liked the ass,” he said, breathless in anticipation, “but we brought no lube. We’ll have to plan better.”

The Sniper looked at the Spy as the Spy grabbed the Cook’s hips and pulled her to her knees. “I know how you are, Sneak.” The man was nearly shaking with the desire to fuck her, and the Sniper had to admit, given her response to a simple spank and fuck, the idea was appealing.

He looked down at the Cook. “Clean me off.”

The Cook, still shaking gently with aftershocks, found his fingers prying her mouth open and the familiar feel of his cock sliding into her mouth. Behind her, a pair of long fingers slid into her using Sniper’s cum as lube and scissored gently, making the nerves protest and thrum.

She shook, still sensitive from the orgasm. “Oh, very good, _Bête_. She is bruised, and sensitive, and very, very wet.”

“And me on my best behavior, Sneak. You have to break them in gently.” The Sniper’s eyelids fluttered shut, the warmth of her mouth right on the line between pain and pleasure on his over-sensitive cock. He forced his eyes open, to savor the sight of his partner pushing into the woman, the expression on the Spy’s face when he finally got what he wanted from her.

The Spy’s fingers were replaced by the blunt head of his cock and she moaned against the Sniper. The Sniper watched the Spy’s face change as he slowly pushed himself into her, watched the man’s face twist as his hips came forward. The noises she made as the Spy pushed himself inside her were a small, wet vibration that threatened to steal his breath entirely.

It took the Spy a moment of stillness to speak, voice strained with the need to move. “You were right, _Bête_. She does squeeze when you hurt her.”

The Spy pulled himself out of her and jolted forward with a wet slap, forcing her head down on the Sniper, who shuddered with brief pain. _So he is in that mood_ , the Sniper thought. _Pain does the job just fine_. He moaned once, raggedly, and the Spy’s eyes snapped open, fixed on his face. The Spy shivered, then looked down and the woman between them.

“Does it hurt, _Vipere_? Good.”

She froze between them, unable to think, unable to move, her mind empty of everything but the sensations pouring through her, every nerve in her body singing. The Sniper slapped the back of her head, jolting her into movement.

“Concentrate, Birdie,” he growled.

The Cook sucked at him, tasting salt and sour and musk around his cock as it once again began to choke her. The Spy pounded her painfully, little shocks as his cock smashed into her and his hips met her bruises. She could feel herself dripping on the bed below her, saliva from her mouth and the cum from her cunt dripping little puddles on the bed. She felt herself tighten, muscles clutching at the Spy.

“Very, very good _Vipere_.” The Spy gave a hoarse moan. “Oh, _Bête_ , we will have to do this more. I cannot wait to stretch her out around us both.”

In her mouth, the Sniper started to thrust, hands on either side of her face. “I wonder how loud we can make her be?”

“ _Bête_ , we could wake up the BLU in their base with this.”

She could hear her pulse in her own ears, the feel of Sniper’s cock sliding down her throat and Spy bruising her cunt. The Cook was suspended between them, eyes closed, body sparking, loud moans muffled by the Sniper’s cock. With a shout, she felt the Spy come inside her, slowing bending down over her back with the force of his orgasm. The Spy reached underneath her, still twitching, and slid his fingers wetly around her clit, teasing it hard before pinching it. The Cook came, Sniper’s cock down her throat, choking her, and the feel of Spy’s cock still gently pulsing with aftershocks.

Her body sagged, and both men popped their cocks out of her.

“I believe,” the Spy panted, “we have tired her out.”

“I’m not tired.” The Sniper looked at them both: the woman lying in the huge wet spot on the bed and the Spy, collapsed on the bed beside her, catching his breath. _Oh no_ , he thought, _you’re not getting out of it that easily_. Both the woman and the Spy—he was going to fuck the Spy into shaky incoherence, and the woman was going to help him do it.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Keep our little Birdie entertained.” The Sniper pulled on his jeans and strode out of the room, padding barefoot through the base and leaving the door open.

The Spy pushed the Cook onto her back and slid two fingers into her, watching her eyes roll nervously over to the door. “I wonder what our _Bête_ could be getting, _Vipere_. Could it be something to keep you occupied while we play? And how shall we use you, _Vipere_?” His fingers pressed her swollen g spot and she flinched, tensing. “How shall we wring pretty little noises from you?”

He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “Are you afraid someone will walk by? Do you not want anyone to see you?”

The Cook could feel herself starting to warm again, that strange alchemy that is pain in one second and pleasure in the next, arching off the bed into his probing fingers. She bit her lip, trying not to make noise. She hoped no one would walk by the door to see what he was doing.

She hoped someone would.

“Will you beg again, _Vipere_? Will you cry for us?” Her wide open eyes were still focused on the door, and the Spy reminded himself to make something of her fear of being exposed the next time he played with her.

The Sniper walked in with his hands full, kicking the door shut. “We’re keeping the base awake. I bet at least half are wanking into their beds right now. Nobody stopped me, but it’s tense out there.” He looked at the Cook on the bed, the pornographic flush on her face and breasts, and smiled at the Spy. The man had clever, clever fingers and no inhibitions except his ridiculous insistence that there be rules for everything when he was on top. The woman looked halfway to another orgasm.

She was about to be really frustrated. The thought added a quick spike of pleasure to his warmth. He set a small plug beside the Spy, along with a bottle of lube.

“Good,” the Spy purred. “They can wait their turn. Roll over, _Vipere_.”

The Cook rolled over, boneless. She felt the Spy pull her hips up—her legs were twitching, barely able to hold her weight, and she shifted uneasily on her knees.

“Look at it, _Bête_. Look at how full she is.” The cold air made the Cook shiver, then more violently at the thick stream of cold lube.

“Shhh, shhh, now, _Vipere_. We’re just going to occupy you for a time longer.” A slick finger teased the edge of her ass, making a slick circle and pressing until she made a low cry, her head thrown back.

“This was an excellent idea, _Bête_.”

The Sniper smiled indulgently behind the Spy. The man was nothing if not predictable, and loved anal. Giving, receiving, he didn’t seem to care. It was one of the Sniper’s favorite things about the Spy, that greedy hunger to fuck or be fucked.

“You’re bottoming this time, Sneak.”

“If you wish.” The Spy took a shaky breath.

The Spy’s finger popped into her, pressing the second ring of muscle and she raised a hand to touch her clit. He slapped it. “ _Non_. For this, you will endure.”

The Cook whined a little as the first finger pressed past the second ring of muscle and fluttered gently. The second finger burned a bit, forcing the muscle open and fluttering again inside her, making her squirm. “Oh no, _Vipere_ , you will take this.”

Once the third finger was able to slide into her, the Spy pulled his fingers out and she felt the cold, wide head of a plug push past her slack muscles and bury itself in her, stinging. She gasped, knotting her fingers in her sheets at the intrusion.

“Up!”

She sat up, feeling herself slide around the plug, and turned around to find the Spy’s cock in her face.

“Suck, _Vipere_.” He pressed her down until he could crouch over her, cock buried in her mouth. When the Sniper slid a finger into the Spy’s ass, she felt him clench, his cock bobbing in her mouth.

The Spy hissed, his eyes closing. Every new finger made Spy throb again, tremors running through his body. When the Sniper finally slid his cock into the Spy, the Spy ground his cock into her throat, holding her head as she choked. He let her head go as the Sniper found a rough rhythm. “Suck, _Vipere_. Harder.”

He placed one of her hands on his balls and fucked her face as Sniper fucked him. The plug slid around in her ass she moved, keeping her from bending fully and reminding her with spiteful little pulses that she was filled.

The Sniper held the Spy’s hips in his hands, eyes closed against the sight of his cock disappearing. It never ceased to make him want to howl: the long line of the Spy’s spine and the elegant curves of his ass, the clutching heat around the Sniper’s cock and the way the Spy threw his head back, surrendering utterly to the cock inside him. If they didn’t have an audience, the man would be babbling—a stream of moans and incoherent French falling from his lips and his hips jolting back, fucking the Sniper as roughly as he was fucked. The Sniper knew the Spy was holding back, knew the lips wrapped around his cock and the cock in his ass must be making the man dizzy. He pulled the man up slightly, wrapping his arms around his chest so that he could get a better angle and the feeling of the Spy’s body against his, so he could see the woman’s head moving, and fucked the Spy harder, holding him so that he was helpless.

The Spy, beautifully sensitive as always, simply surrendered and let his head fall back against the Sniper’s shoulder, a long, guttural moan spilling out of his lips before a string of mangled French, his ass rippling around the Sniper. The Sniper tightened his arms, and bending his knees, fucked the Spy hard enough to bring him up on his toes. The Spy made a noise that fluttered between a scream and choking, and came, shaking. The Sniper joined him seconds later, with a howl. The men stood, locked together, and the Cook watched them, eyes wide and cunt squeezing. The Spy opened his eyes, then pulled his cock free from the Cook and put his hand over her mouth. The Sniper was still buried in him, still shuddering with aftershocks.

“Now swallow, _Vipere_ ,” the Spy panted. She did, her face twisting, watching the Sniper bend the Spy gently and slide himself out. The Sniper stood for a moment, chest heaving and head down, and the Spy turned to watch his lover recovering. After a moment, the Sniper looked up, hair matted with sweat.

“I want to keep the plug in overnight,” he panted.

“The naughty little thing will pull it out when we leave, won’t you.” It wasn’t a question. The Spy could tell from her glassy eyes and flush that she was desperate for relief, and that as soon as they weren’t watching her, she’d be flat on her back with whatever vibrators she’d brought with her. And after her orgasm, she’d be sensitive and she’d pull the plug out as if her pleasure was the point of what they’d done. By the look of it, it wouldn’t take her long. _If we let it be too easy_ , the Spy thought, _she wouldn’t be this close to frenzy, and this easy to make comply_.

The Cook wriggled around the plug, watching them both.

“One of us will have to keep an eye on her.” The Spy looked over at the Sniper where he’d laid down, winded.

“Do you care, Sneak?” The Sniper ran a hand down his chest, and lightly cupped himself. _The man is very nearly insatiable_ , the Spy thought. _If I don’t leave, we’ll be at it again, shortly_.“ _Non_. You may watch her.”

The Spy grabbed his slacks and stepped into them, pulling them up and adjusting himself. He stretched, taking a deep breath, picked up his clothes. “Have fun, _Bête_.”

The Sniper grinned at the Spy, then turned his attention to the Cook as the Spy left the room, closing the door. He gestured. “Come here, little Birdie.”

The Cook frowned at him. “Why are you staying? Don’t you want to follow him?” _If I can’t come,_ she thought, _I’m going to fucking explode. Go away_.

The Sniper smirked and pulled her down into his arms. “Oh, he’ll be fine without me.”

When she lay down, he slipped a hand between her legs and stroked gently at her clit until she whined and humped his hand. The Spy, clever manipulator that he was, had been right to keep her this way, afire with hunger. It would make her more tractable, an easier toy for his games with his lover.

“Oh, I won’t let you come. But knowing you’re filled and aching next to me is satisfying. Be grateful I didn’t bring any of my other fun toys. Now try to sleep.”

His tickling, teasing fingers brushed her again, then withdrew and he cupped her breast. “Sleep, Birdie.”

To her surprise, the Cook eventually fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: NIN, "Closer"


	6. Chapter 6

The plug woke her painfully when she rolled over, well after her set alarm. She supposed that the Sniper had probably turned it off. He was gone, taking the scraps of bra with him. In the bathroom, she pushed the plug out and sighed in relief, taking a long hot shower that stung on several vicious bite marks. She peered at her back in the mirror, seeing the stripes that trailed down her ass and thighs. In the morning light, they looked terrible. Her cunt and ass ached gently as she dressed and walked to the kitchen, each step reminding her of the previous night and the fact that she hadn’t had the last orgasm—the clock set her to hurrying.

The Cook was glad she had gotten up early enough to have some privacy. Her good mood was fragile, and she had no idea how she’d react to seeing any of them the next morning. When she rounded the corner to enter the kitchen, she came to a sudden halt, anxiety making her heart thump in her chest. The Medic turned from his perch on a stool he’d dragged into the kitchen, pulling a mug from his lips.

“They did not bring you. I did not know if you were well.”

The morning light picked out the threads of silver in his hair, and his sleepless eyes were bagged. The lines next to his mouth were pronounced, and she realized that he had been up and worried that she was being hurt, that he seemed to care. She was struck again by the fact that he was a handsome man, pleasantly rumpled—sleep pants, slippers, and a t shirt took a face that could have been forbidding and made it pleasant, even somewhat fatherly. He wore glasses, and had made himself coffee while he waited, obviously familiar with a French press and grinding his own coffee.

She blinked. _Fatherly_. What in the world had possessed her to have that thought? Perhaps it was their age difference. Or perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to feel responsible for her, and his protective behavior of the previous night—for a man who had come in the previous day in bloody, filthy clothing, he appeared to be incredibly kind. The Cook couldn’t sense any judgment in him, merely preoccupied worry, and was not as embarrassed as she’d expected to be by having to see any of them after the previous night.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Sore, but fine.”

“Come with me.” He stood up, gesturing at her with the hand without the mug, and walked to the kitchen door.

“I have to make breakfast.” The Cook picked up her apron and started to tie it on.

“Please. Come with me.”

His tone alternated command and pleading. She put the apron down and sighed. _At least_ , she thought, _he cares enough to check on me. Might as well let him_.

“All right, she said. “But make it fast.”

The surgery was five doors down from the kitchen and dining room. The Medic insisted that the Cook strip down, and hissed appreciatively at the bruises as she turned in front of him, the same distance making her comfortable stripping down and letting him examine her closely. She could sense nothing from him but professional curiosity and the same, abstracted concern that made a patient confess easily to their doctor. She answered his few questions and permitted him to poke the various cuts and bruises.

After the exam, he applied antibiotic cream to the cut between her breasts and asked how much she ached. The Cook flushed up to her hairline, and the Medic gave her aspirin and reminded her she didn’t have to stay. His eyes lingered on the cut after she’d dressed.

She wondered what he was thinking.

He shooed her out of the room, letting her go back to the kitchen. When she left, he sighed heavily and leaned against the wall. One hand reached down and he adjusted himself, counting to ten in German, Russian, French, and Spanish, waiting for his erection to go down—a combination of nudity, bruises, and that delicious cut between her breasts. _It was a good day_ , he thought with mild amusement and chagrin, _to wear tight briefs and loose pants_. _Mein gott, she’s easy to get naked_. _Helen, what did you send us?_

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

Breakfast was awkward. The Scout couldn’t stop smirking, the Spy and Sniper were relaxed to the point of silence, and both the Engineer and Demo couldn’t make eye contact with her over the table. The Medic’s perennially distracted air made him seem as if he were barely in the room, and the Heavy was surly. The Pyro was quiet, quickly taking the sugar for the coffee and overfilling his cup before drinking it. The Soldier sat at the head of the table and simply stared at her, open hunger on his face.

The Cook looked around and, embarrassed, decided to eat in the kitchen. The Sniper stopped her with a hand on her thigh as she tried to walk past him.

“Do sit. You look a little peaky, Birdie, like you had a rough night. Wouldn’t want you to pass out before dinner.” He grinned nastily at her over the edge of his cup. “You have such a long day ahead of you.”

“You…you.…” The Cook clenched her fists around the plate in her hand, picturing breaking it over his head.

“Don’t make me tell stories around the table. I’d imagine, though, that everyone else will know soon enough.” The Sniper put his cup down with a satisfied smirk and started to eat his eggs one-handed, the hand on her thighs creeping around to cup her ass.

“I may be marginally okay with the situation, but I won’t be teased about it.” She stepped forward suddenly, pulling herself away from the Sniper’s hand, the warmth of it seeming to cling to her skin. Her body remembered the previous night, and was suddenly both fully awake and hungry to be touched.

“Pity,” the Spy said, from across the table. “You blush so nicely when embarrassed.”

The Cook made a growling noise in the back of her throat. She wasn’t sure who she hated more—herself for reacting, or the room full of men so anxious to treat her like a sex object. She wanted to believe it was just loneliness. It had been a full year since she’d slept with anyone. Or perhaps it was simply her be-damned masochism rearing its ugly and entirely unwanted head. But if she were honest with herself, she had gone along with what they had done willingly enough. She’d even enjoyed some of it. _No_ , she thought, _let’s be honest. I enjoyed the whole damn thing_. _Christ_ , _I have hideous taste in men. What the hell is wrong with me?_ She threw her plate at the sink in the kitchen from the door, shattering it against the wall, and stomped out.

The Engineer watched her go with a worried expression on his face, lines forming between his eyes beneath his pushed-up goggles. He turned back to the table. “You bastards are going to make her leave if you keep it up.” The Engineer scowled at both Sniper and Spy over his toast. “She does have the right to some dignity.”

“Oh yes,” the Spy drawled, his fork twirling loosely on his plate. “And she sheds it most beautifully.” In the ensuing silence, he smiled smugly at the Engineer, who immediately flushed with anger.

“Jesus, you’re an asshole,” the Engineer said, finally looking down at his plate. There were times when he really hated that man—the smug way the Spy assumed he could manipulate everyone, that he could needle everyone with impunity. And the nasty little machines both spies carried, those sappers, made him want to beat the man’s head in with a wrench any time he saw him. If he had known they were going to keep adapting his design and keep the plans from him, he would never have drafted the original.

“What did you do last night?” The Scout bounced in his chair, restlessly burning off the caffeine from the soda cans in front of his plate. “‘Cause we heard her yelling for hours.”

“Let us say that she is responsive, shall we?” The Spy took a sip of his coffee. “Most responsive.” He had to admit he enjoyed teasing them all this way—having had something they did not pleased him, as did most games he could play with power. Introducing the woman to the base gave his various little plans all sorts of new variables. A little teasing, in the mean time, was enjoyable. The more vanilla team members were fun to tease, and he knew how much most of them needed to get laid. It had been so boring.

The Sniper merely smiled, his canines flashing over his lower lip. “She’ll be all right.” And she would, he thought—she may have been in denial of some of the finer points of her own nature, but that little thing she’d done, snapping her teeth at them, had been incredibly arousing. The Spy may have his little formal games, but the Sniper found himself fantasizing about chasing her through the moonlight, about running her down and rutting her as she snapped and snarled. The fact that it apparently annoyed the stuffy Engineer was, in his opinion, one of the many bonuses of getting there first.

“We may be sadists,” the Medic tipped his head at Spy and Sniper, “and psychopaths,” he tipped his head at the room, “but if we do not play carefully with our toys, we will lose them.” The Medic reminded himself as much as the rest of the men. While she’d submitted willingly enough to an examination that morning, she had been nervous, even ashamed, and pushing her too far would make her seal herself up in her room every night. The Spy and Sniper’s poor self-control continued, even decades later, to shock him. He expected as much from the Americans, but those two worried him. Both men often seemed to snarl at each other like animals in a cage.

The Demo speared an egg. “Be nice to the lassie. She doesnae have to put up with us.”

“Indeed, but I assure you it holds a certain amount of attraction for her.” The Spy lit a cigarette. “Near immortality, money, and an endless supply of interested partners.... That, gentlemen, is a powerful incentive.” _And_ , he added in the silence of his own mind, _her reactions tell me she’s never had the chance to explore her own sexuality. That’ll keep her coming back for much longer than money might. Pleasure is a better motivation than abstractions_.

The Demo rolled his eyes. “Have ye tried making it enjoyable fer the lassie, yeh evil bastard? She will not stay if it isnae.” Sometimes, he wondered where his teammates had been raised, that they were so damn bad at wooing women and so demanding. He could just see the Spy as a bratty little boy—no doubt he’d been spoiled. _The Sniper_ , he thought, _was obviously raised by wolves_.

“We enjoy ourselves in our own ways.” The Spy breathed out a smoky mouthful. “And which of us will be next?”

“I’m out,” said Scout, making a face. “I know what you two do to women and I can’t stand fucking a woman who looks beat on. I’ll do this thing later.”

“I’m out, too. I don’t mind a little rough, but you two leave a mess.” The Engineer scratched his chin. “I’d like to get the chance for a little touch after the yelling.”

The Medic looked at Heavy, wondering what his partner was thinking. “I would not mind.”

“I know, Doctor.” The Heavy gave him a half-smile, then looked down at his plate, refusing to make eye contact. The Medic winced and sighed. He knew the Heavy had no particular love for sex with women, and was humoring him. Not for the first time, he wished he were gayer or straighter, that his desires were less fluid and that he could avoid the hurt silence he knew was coming between them.

The Spy, watching him, could see the tension, the effort the Heavy was putting into even contemplating sex around a woman, let alone having sex with the woman. But he would do it, the Spy decided, just like he would do any number of other things to please the Medic. The Medic, the Spy could tell, had his own plans for the woman. The distracted air he had adopted may have fooled her—she hadn’t even looked at the man when she walked in from the kitchen—but the Spy had spent too much time watching the lot of them not to recognize the slowly mounting tension in the Medic’s expression. He was briefly sorry he couldn’t get along with him. It was obvious they had quite a bit in common, at least in bed, and he knew the Medic was flexible enough to appreciate men.

The Pyro cleared his throat. “I’d share with you two.”

The Spy’s eyebrows raised at that. The Pyro rarely spoke, preferring silence, or a grunt and gesture to speech. The Spy had never heard the Pyro speak about women, wasn’t sure he’d even want to spend any time having sex. Repeatedly volunteering to be in an orgy with the Medic and reluctant Heavy was completely out of character for the man. The Spy’s eyes narrowed and he smoothed his hair with a free hand, considering the smaller, scarred man staring at the Medic—was the Pyro even capable of sex? The visible scarring on his body was extensive. The Spy looked the man over slowly. The Pyro’s unruly bed head was half stuck to his scalp, and half out in spikes, and as he waited for the Medic to answer, his unmarked hand crept over to the scars on his forearm. He scratched them, absently, with a rasping sound, focused on the Medic.

It was a pity, the Spy thought, that the man was so heavily scarred. The unscarred half of his body was quite handsome—a mix, the Spy thought, of white and some East Asian country. The hair on the Pyro’s head was the particular soft black of burnt wood. His skin was a pleasant mixture of golden cream, where it hadn’t burned to palest purple, pink, and white, swirling across his neck, arm, the visible edges of his chest, and the sides of his face. The Spy was briefly and unpleasantly reminded of Vietnam and napalm, and shuddered.

After a moment, the Medic answered. “Very well. You can come with us.”

The Demo put his head in his hands and slid head and arms down onto the table. From his folded arms, he repeated himself. “Ask the damn lassie. Ask her what she wants.”

The Soldier watched them all, hands clenched on the table. “She deserves the chance to pick.”

The Sniper looked up. “She picked. And she’ll pick again. Trust me.”

The Spy lit his morning cigarette and considered them as a tableau. He’d spent decades watching these men over the table, in the field, while they thought they were alone—the dynamics at the table had shifted now that someone new had been introduced. He found himself wondering what the changes meant to all the little, separate kingdoms they lived in.

He realized he was eager to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, "Loverman"


	7. Chapter 7

The Cook, long before she was done with dinner, decided to leave them to feed themselves. There was no way she was going to volunteer to sit there while the Sniper or the Spy dropped little details about the previous night, let alone to have to try to eat while the rest of the mercenaries leered at her. As far as she was concerned, that would be the pattern for the rest of her contract. It had to be safer than trying to be around them all. She would just get up long before they rose, make dinner before they came back in, and retreat to her room, locking the door.

 _Right_ , she thought, _as if a locked door would stop any of them_. She had to do something, even if the gesture was pointless and maybe, if she wasn’t around, maybe they’d just leave her alone. _And maybe_ , she thought, _there are unicorns in the closet_. She put the desk chair under the door knob and lay down on the still-dirty bed, staring at the ceiling. She had no idea where the washing machines might be, or even where to find detergent to clean her sheets.

The mercenaries, filing into the dining room, found a table that had been set for them and several covered dishes. The Cook never appeared to fill the empty seat between the Medic and Heavy. By the end of the meal, they knew she wouldn’t. The Medic sighed—the Sniper and Spy had, once again, created problems he had to clean up. The men seemed to delight in making a mess that he would feel obliged to deal with, almost as if punishing him for having to report on them to RED.

“Looks like you’ll have to go get the little Birdie out of her room,” the Sniper said, staring at the Medic. “Good thing you have a soft touch… Nursie.” The Medic, useful as he was, irritated the Sniper—the man seemed to think of himself as the unofficial base administrator, ordering them all about and scolding them like an old woman whenever they did anything he disliked. He hated the man’s fussiness, his seeming need to behave like their father, the way he hated to be dirty and insisted on such an incredibly impractical coat on the field. The white made him stand out like a flag in anything but the snow, and the Sniper found it incredibly annoying that the Medic never tried to blend in, forcing his teammates to guard him.

“I hope you get syphilis the next time you go to town, Sniper, so I can refuse to treat it.”

The Sniper smirked in disbelief. If he got syphilis, a bullet would fix it, as it did any injury or illness. Sometimes, he wondered if the Medic remembered where he was.

The Medic, looking at the smirk, decided against a small alteration of the system to add something itchy to the Sniper’s respawn. He’d just give it to the poor girl. _But sometimes_ , the Medic thought, _it’d be satisfying to remind the Bushman that his life depends on the_ _respawn and my choice to heal him._ He stood, loading an empty plate. “Heavy, would you fetch a teapot and four cups?”

The Heavy lumbered into the kitchen, taking his plate and the Medic’s. The Pyro followed, putting down his plate in the sink and coming back to the table to snag a handful of cookies. The three made their way to the Cook’s room and found the door locked. After a moment, the Medic rapped on the door.

“I don’t care who it is,” she said, dully. “You’re not getting in.”

“I am merely checking on you, _Fräu_.” The Medic rapped the door again with his knuckles, annoyance starting to bleed into his voice. _Every time. Every single time_ , he thought, _I am stuck with their messes_.

“Go away.” The words were ragged, the tone thick.

 _Vunderbar_ , the Medic thought. _And she’s been crying_. “ _Fräu_ , it is my job to check on others. You were not at dinner, and I need to be sure you are not wounded or seriously ill.” He shifted the plate in his hands, letting his fingers cool.

After a moment, he heard the squeal of a chair against the concrete floor and the small click of the lock. She opened the door and peered around it, hunched as if hiding behind the door. The Cook eyed the three of them, the food in their hands.

The Medic gestured with the plate. “Nothing ill is intended. We are merely insuring that you are well. May we come in?”

She stared at him for a moment. He couldn’t quite identify the emotion on her face—shame, perhaps. Anger, definitely. And something else. Fear? He closed his eyes. _Vunderbar_. The room still smelled like sex, and with a disgusted twist of his lips, he felt sure his team members had employed much more force than kindness. The girl seemed more fragile by the second, shock no doubt setting in once she’d had time to think about what had been done to her.

The Cook, watching the disgust pass across his face, could only interpret it one way. He was disgusted with her. She walked away from the door and went back to the bed, laying down and staring blankly at the ceiling. Her voice was quiet. “I’m not hungry.”

The Heavy rumbled, relieved. “Is okay. We do not have to be here. Will leave food and tea by the door for when you are hungry again.”

She turned toward them, staring. She’d expected another display of force, another overwhelming combination of manipulation and skill that would leave her confused, hungry, and shamed. Instead, the men stood just inside the doorway, taking care not to invade the room, and waiting for her to state a preference one way or the other. The Medic’s disgusted expression had softened into worry. The Heavy seemed resigned, and the Pyro’s baleful gaze was shy, even somewhat tentative. He held out a handful of the cookies she’d absentmindedly made for dessert. “They’re good.”

The Cook blinked—the tense violence she had seen in his expression when they’d met seemed to have evaporated. The cookies were held out in front of him like a shield, or perhaps like a little boy sharing with a sweetheart. “I know.”

The Pyro brought the cookies back to his nose and sniffed once, with clear pleasure, then offered them to her again. “Better than store cookies.”

The Cook slowly sat up, responding as much to the pleading look on his face as to the gentle behavior of the men in her room. “I hope so. Those damn things at the store are always a bit stale.”

The poor girl was all but trying to hide under the bed, and he felt sorry for her. The Heavy held up a flowered teapot. “Is good tea for cookies. Spicy.”

She could smell it—bergamot and something floral to balance the bergamot’s spiciness. Her stomach gurgled, and she pressed a hand to it, embarrassed. She had cooked and cleaned all day in a haze, working through the events of the previous night. Their attention and the warm, greasy smell reminded her that she was lightheaded with hunger.

The Medic put the plate slowly on her desk. “We do not have to be here, _Fräu_. We merely wanted to see if you were well.” He made a flipping gesture with his hand, and the men turned to go.

The Cook realized that, along with being hungry, she wanted someone to talk to—someone to simply listen. The willingness of the Medic to leave, the Pyro’s simple, tentative desire to share, the Heavy’s seeming disinterest: she realized she wanted friends. She reached out, fingers curling in the empty air between them, pleading for company before she had the courage to speak. “No, it’s kind of you. I’ll eat. You don’t have to go.”

The Medic turned, his sweat-stained lab coat swirling over his tan slacks. “Where would you like us to sit?”

Her hand, hanging in the air between them, opened. The Medic found himself watching it, the fingers flexing. _Well_ , he thought, _not defeated, but certainly lonely_ . His eyes closed for a moment, imagining her hand pulling him close. When he opened his eyes, she was watching him, wary and hopeful. _Patience,_ he thought _, no trust without patience_.

“Just not on the bed, please.” She wasn’t sure she would be able to submit to another night of vicious gymnastics, nor to chance one of them trying to cross the space between them, to touch her. She realized that she wanted someone to touch her and shuddered—her own desire terrified her, the fact that she could be full to the brim of loathing, even rage, and still hungry to be touched. The trio in front of her was not menacing, but she could still feel the potential for it hanging in the air like a promise. _And is it not right for the Medic to be disgusted_ , she thought, _that someone could have done to them what the Spy and Sniper had done to me, and still want something more_. _Is it not right for the Medic to be disgusted that the violence itself was part of what attracts me to them?_

The Medic put the plate on the desk with a faint clink, then pulled the desk chair out and sat on it, leaving the Heavy leaning against the wall beside him, cradling the teapot and several mugs. The Pyro sat on the floor near them and handed her a cookie, his hand avoiding hers with obvious care.

She took the cookie and sighed, looking up at the Medic. “I was expecting something a little more forceful.” Her eyes skipped down him, lingering at neck, pants and boots.

The words and her faintly disappointed expression hit him like a blow and he flinched—the vulnerability and telltale mix of desire and shame was practically edible. _Helen_ , he thought, shocked, _you sent us something more than a masochist. This one is…_ He was forced to remind himself what the woman had endured. _She can’t take any more right now_ . _Don’t push her_ . “If you wish, _Fräu_ , but for you it would be too much, _ja_?” The Medic hooked a booted ankle over his knee, smearing mud across his slacks, and leaned back in the chair. “We are not animals.” _Do not_ , he added silently, _compare me to those animals_.

His glasses glittered under the lights, moving as he breathed. The Cook found herself watching them, watching the light scatter and hide, then expose the pale blue eyes behind the lenses. The Medic was sweaty and speckled with blood, his red tie hanging loosely from the collar of his shirt. He needed a shower, and the triangle of his chest in the open vee of his shirt made her wonder what that would look like, whether age had left a sparse padding over the visible muscle. She wondered if she was gawking, if that same, damned urge to touch someone and be touched was obvious. The man seemed so distant, disapproving and remote, and she wanted to make him respond to her, to see what his disgust meant. _Why_ , she thought, _would I want to bother a man who so obviously doesn’t want me that way, who looks at me like I’m a wayward child_?

“How,” she started, then took a breath. “How is this all going to work? Do you decide or do I?”

The Medic clicked his tongue and shifted, the chair creaking under him. “We will ask, but we decide who asks, to prevent the fighting.”

Her eyebrows met over her eyes. “And if I say no?”

The Medic looked down and away before responding. “Some of us will take the no. Some of us,” he made a complex movement, somewhere between a shrug and a shudder, “are not so good.”

The Cook briefly and badly wanted her knives from the kitchen, castigating herself for not thinking of taking them with her. The Medic looked back and watched the emotions roll across her face. _Ignorant, Helen? How could you send her ignorant of the situation?_

Her file suggested quite explicitly that she had a background with violence, but her responses—the blushing, the hiding, the lack of sophistication with which she greeted the situation—made him wonder if there had been a mistake. The girl was practically wet behind the ears, as far as he could tell. A virtual child, and certainly no one he’d send to this base. _I have to be missing something_ , he thought. _There has to be something more to her_.

He laced his fingers over his knee and continued, watching her face. “I received your records this morning. The company was most thorough in their search for you. There are even interviews with a previous lover in the file, along with your vitals and a minor police record.”

The Cook’s mouth hung open, then shut with a click as her teeth met. She felt invaded, and wondered which lover they had interviewed. How much could they know? How much was in that file?

The Medic watched her settle on defensive anger. The girl was, no doubt, wondering what crimes and what lover he’d seen testimony from, and didn’t like the idea, nor the stigma of being a criminal. He suppressed his mild amusement—the crimes they’d in her file barely merited mention. Petty theft. Some vagrancy and trespassing. Practically nothing on the scale of the men around her. Even the least criminal of them all, Scout, had more on his file. “Oh, don’t worry, _Fräu_ ,” he said, amusement making his voice lilt. “We all have our little troubles. I can never go back to Germany. Mischa cannot go back to the Ukraine.”

The Heavy hunched in on himself, a reaction that made her think of a flinch, but seemed more the winding of a spring than a guilty hunch. The Cook wondered if he would attack or retreat, if provoked. She knew, from working with ex-cons, that the men with the least serious crimes tended to brag the loudest. The Heavy’s reaction read murder to her, and she found herself grateful that the man had never shown any interest in her. She could see the blood on his coat, but the Medic’s breezy dismissal made her wonder how serious his crimes could be. Her eyes turned to the Pyro, and she had to know—the candy-coated sweetness of the last few minutes and the flat violence in his face at their first dinner made her worry about his ability to be predicted. She had no idea what to do with him other than to simply ask and hope she didn’t offend him. “And what did you do?”

The Pyro smiled sweetly at her. “It was this or a padded cell. I get to play with fire and no one takes away my toys or arrests me for it.”

Somewhere, beneath that smile, the Cook saw leaping flames and felt the little hairs on the back of her neck rise, prickling. The disjointed behavior, that little response—the man was, without a doubt, insane. The Medic watched her shrink away from them all on the bed. She didn’t appear to be aware of it, but he knew they’d all noticed, and that she would offend the Pyro rather quickly if she didn’t stop.

The Pyro, watching her, responded before he could speak. “You make very good sweets,” he chirped. “I love sweets. And you made me a whole cake the other day, just for myself. No one makes me nice things just for me.”

The woman stopped shrinking back, her body language reading pity, or perhaps simply empathy. The boy was beaming at her, practically radiating wholesomeness, his hands tucked in his lap. The Medic sighed with relief. Managing the sometimes volatile Pyro and this poor woman was turning out to be a delicate balancing act. _It couldn’t hurt_ , he thought, _to encourage some pity_. “The Pyro did not have the happiest of childhoods, _Fräu_. There were some institutions and a most unfortunate caretaker who died rather suddenly.”

“Yes,” said the Pyro, his face becoming solemn. “He burned.”

If he had been alone, the Medic would have sworn extensively. The woman had backed up enough to flatten herself against the wall, bunching that unappealing brown shirt around her waist. Her eyes were rimmed in white, the skin beneath them shivering. “ _Fräu_ ,” he said, gently. “Please at least try to eat. It is not good for you to go so long without food. Please.”

Her head swiveled, eyes focusing on him, and he made his expression as neutral and kind as he could—her vulnerability was, as vulnerability always did, mildly arousing him. But he could, at least, keep it off his face. “Please.”

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she slowly peeled herself away from the wall. _It could not hurt_ , she thought, _to eat something_. The Medic leaned forward to hand her the plate and fork. She took her first awkward bites hunched over it, teetering on the edge of retreat. They let her eat without comment, and she slowly relaxed down into the bed. When she had cleaned the plate, she looked up, clear-eyed and serious, clutching her fork like a weapon. “I don’t want to die here.”

The Medic recoiled in his chair, offended. “I would not allow it. Not permanently.” _Had they not explained respawn to the poor girl_?

From his post by the door, the Heavy made a gesture with his hand, still weighed down with the teacups and teapot no one had told him to place. The girl’s responses had been more or less exactly what he’d expected—she was completely unprepared for the situation, and he knew his lover enough to know the man was alternating between arousal and shock at how poorly she’d been prepared for the base. He felt sorry for the girl himself. “The boy is not dangerous to you, _девочка_. Only if you hurt him.”

The Pyro spoke around the cookies in his mouth. “You make me sweets. I’d never hurt you.”

The tightness around her eyes didn’t loosen, but she did appear to understand the subtext, nodding very slightly at the Heavy before watching the Pyro try to smile encouragingly at her. The Heavy had never seen the boy try so hard to be liked, and with a flash of insight, realized that the Pyro wanted, in his stunted way, to be her friend. He shifted, nudging the Medic’s shoulder with his elbow, which the Medic reached up to squeeze, then froze.

“Ah, Mischa! I’m sorry. Please put the teapot down on the desk.”

The Heavy thought about rolling his eyes at the Medic—over fifty years, and the man still forgot, sometimes, about the most basic details. With an affectionate, wry smile, he put his burden down, flexing his tired fingers. The Medic watched, a faint blush on his cheeks that the Heavy found too adorable to remain annoyed at him.

The Medic turned after a moment to the woman sitting on the bed. “I should warn you, _Fräu_ , that minor theft would be met here with rather swift punishment.” _It is_ , he thought, _only fair to warn her_. _The Demolitionist’s room, in particular, has inventive and rather nasty traps on the door_.

The Cook hunched her shoulders, huddling over the plate, and snapped defensively at him. “I was starving. I’m not usually a thief.” The incident had been especially embarrassing—she had shoplifted a handful of packets of nuts, which turned out to be more complicated than she thought it would be. The clerk at the gas station had not been amused.

“Then it is good you are not hungry.” The Medic tapped his fingers against the toe of his boot, a dry rattling sound that felt to her like a drum roll. The man appeared to be drawing a variety of conclusions, all of which seemed bad. The file, that entire stupid incident, was apparently never going to stop coming up—it was embarrassing to have any conviction, and embarrassing to have such petty convictions among men who, no doubt, had files that dwarfed hers.

The Heavy poured tea, setting the teapot down with a click against her desk next to the four, mismatched mugs. The Cook waited for everyone else to get their tea before leaning forward to claim the last mug, watching them each return to their places.

“What,” she said into the waiting silence, “do you want from me?”

The Medic sighed. He wasn’t sure how she’d take it, but he had never liked to lie. The interview with the lover in the file, along with some of the comments, made it clear that she enjoyed pain, but the devil was always in the details. There was no way to predict whether or not she’d like the same kind of pain he did, whether or not she’d even be interested. He looked at the hunch of her shoulders, the faint tremor of skin under her eyes, her breath shallow and faint spots of red high in her cheeks. _High emotion. Pleased? Angry? Terrified?_ “Well, _Fräu_ ,” he said, slowly. “I have read your file. For me, it is the slow pain. I am not frenzied, like our Sniper.”

There was no change in her face, nothing to tell him whether she was about to run— _and where would she go,_ he thought. _The bathroom? The desert?_ —or whether she felt anything new at all on hearing him. The Medic continued, watching closely. “The Heavy is not a lover of women, but will watch. The Pyro loves his flame, but will behave well enough when told.”

 _Well_ , she thought, _that explains why the Heavy has been so neutral_. After a moment, she spoke. “What do you mean by slow pain?”

“It is complicated, _Fräu_ , but let us say that I like the pointed things and the mind. Unlike your companions of the previous night, I will give you a signal to stop me and I will stop.” The Medic sipped his tea, watching her over the thin white rim of his cup. Her face still hadn’t changed. “Your file was not terribly clear with this. Have you used a signal?”

The Medic watched confusion, surprise, and nervousness flash across her face. She hadn’t said no and didn’t appear offended, but she hadn’t said yes, either.

“I….” She looked down at her plate, fingers whitening as she squeezed it. “I haven’t really done much of anything that formal. Just what comes to mind.” Her shoulders hunched again. “It’s not like it’s all that easy to find anyone who knows what they’re doing.”

“I will take that as a no.” The Medic placed the empty mug back on the desk. “It is simple. You pick a word. Something strange, something you would not say. When you say it, everything stops and we will be most gentle with you.”

She looked up at that. _Confusion and offense_? The Medic searched his memory for some parallel, the decades ago when he’d started to have this sort of sex, and with a shock, realized that she had never really had a relationship like his, with all its complications and comforts. He looked at her over the small circles of his lenses. “Our friends, they did not help you afterward? They did not—” The Medic turned to the Heavy. “What is the word?”

The Heavy spoke. “Aftercare. Comfort.”

Her eyes skipped toward the plug visible on the bathroom counter, through the open door, and she blushed heavily, squirming.

“I see,” the Medic said. _My god,_ he thought _, those two jackals simply could not help themselves, could they? They just had to break the poor girl in roughly_. “Did you sleep with it?”

She hated the blush that heated her face and resisted the urge to hide in her blankets. The entire conversation made her feel exposed. The Medic’s quiet, patient probing the details of the night before, and the knowledge that the company had her police record and interviews with a lover— _I’d rather be naked_ , she thought, _than have this discussion_.

 _And that_ , the small rational voice in her head whispered, _is also a bit masochistic_. _What are you looking for?_ —the voice was sly— _for more_? She could hear the voice of lovers. _Is there any end to it for you? Are you ever fulfilled_ ? _Jesus, are you ever finished_?

The Medic watched her eyes unfocus, the thoughts spilling through her head making her face pinch in worry and guilt. That flush, one of her hands unconsciously flew to her chest, where it curled against the edge of her shirt, plucking her shirt away from her skin as if she were trying to pull it off: guilt and desire. _Not disgust nor refusal_. _Desire_.

He laughed, delighted, but had to ask. “Well, _Fräu_ , do you wish company this evening?”

The look she aimed at him smoldered, her whole face transforming, and she licked her lips. He wondered, with mild amusement, if she knew the signal which she was sending, and decided she likely didn’t. She was too open in her reactions, as if she had not yet had her heart broken and learned to hide them. When she finally spoke, it was with the slight breathiness of arousal. “Will you be gentle?”

The Medic’s dark eyebrows rose with amused surprise. That distance was back, the sense that he was watching and taking notes. She wanted to dirty him further, to pull the sweat-stained coat from his shoulders and run her hands underneath the cotton of his shirt to explore him. She wondered if she could elicit noise from him: a grunt, a moan, anything that suggested there were emotions under that composure.

“Oh _Kätzchen_ ,” he said, his voice tinged with laughter. “This I cannot promise. But I can promise I will stop when I hear the word ‘orange.’ Repeat this word to me.”

The Cook shivered on her bed, staring into the blue eyes under his lenses. The amusement on his face did not reach the strange chill in his eyes. _Cruelty_ , she thought. _Barely leashed cruelty_. “Orange,” she said softly.

The Medic smiled, a tight, toothy expression. “Heavy, will you get the kit?”

As the Heavy left the room, the Pyro stood up, brushing cookie crumbs from his sweater. “Well, Doctor, what shall I do?”

From his chair, the Medic released a deep, slow breath. _Patience, patience_. “Keep the _Fräu_ warm, of course. We will start gently.”

As the Pyro walked toward the Cook, she watched his dark brown eyes light up, pulling the scars tight around his smile. He had bothered to change clothes, from his usual asbestos suit into a worn, comfortable sweater and a pair of faded, torn jeans—neither clothes had the look of something done for fashion, but instead the hard worn look of clothes that had long since become a part of the man who wore them. There was still a cautious look in his eye, but his saccharine sweetness had disappeared, replaced by an odd mixture of longing and hunger, the need to close the space between them, to touch.

“Nice Cook,” he said. “Sweet Cook.” He crawled slowly across her bed, feline and fluid. “Can I have a kiss, sweet Cook?”

The Cook leaned forward as he sat, knees just brushing hers, and raised his hands to her face. The rough skin of his scars scraped her cheeks gently as he leaned in. His lips brushed hers, smoothly, before coming back, eyes checking her face. Reassured, he leaned in again. The tip of his tongue flicked against her lower lip, tickling it. “Let me in, sweet Cook. Please let me in.”

When she opened her mouth, his tongue skipped along hers, pulling gently until she relaxed. “Sweet Cook,” he whispered against her face. “Warm Cook.”

His hands tightened on her face, his lips tensing on hers before taking her lower lip in his teeth and tightening them briefly, painfully, to hear her gasp. “Pretty Cook made pretty noise last night, kept me up listening. Pretty Cook will make noises for us now.” The kiss became soft again, and the Pyro’s hands trailed slowly down the Cook’s face, gliding over her t shirt and finding its end, tugging and then slipping beneath it to skim her stomach with the same, soft touch. “Touch me, pretty Cook.”

The Cook opened her hands and reached out for his arms, finding them solid with muscle beneath his sweater. She tugged at it until he sat back, pulling it over his head and exposing a plain white tank top, holes singed in the cotton. Beneath it, the scars writhed across his chest as if he had been partially melted on one side, leaving a chest that was half smooth, and half covered in palest purple dips and whorls. She pulled at the tank top and he shifted, letting her bring it over his head. His dark, matted hair stood up in a cowlick, and the slight bulge of his belly hung over his belt. He was mostly hairless, and the skin of one nipple had melted back into his chest. The Pyro sat patiently as she looked him over, the expression on his face slowly changing from pleading to hunger.

“You were burned very badly, weren’t you,” she said, voice faltering.

He hissed at her, leaning back, eyes wide and wild. When the Medic growled from his chair, the Pyro leaned back in, grabbing her face briefly and digging his fingers into it. “The flame kisses and kills, sweet Cook. It is beautiful and deadly.”

She froze, shocked, and he took advantage of that pause to pull the t shirt over her head gently, then unhooked her bra, pulling it from her. “The animals bit you, sweet Cook. Do you taste sweet?”

Before the Medic could warn him off, the Pyro grabbed a handful of her hair and bit down on the unmarked side of her neck. His tongue flicked the skin between his teeth, digging into the skin of her neck. The hands she raised to push him away curled against themselves and the breath fled her, the shock of pain and arousal driving the thoughts from her head. Just before he broke the skin, the Pyro opened his mouth.

The Medic had to surreptitiously adjust himself—the bite, her look of shocked rapture at the pain, the way her nipples had hardened—he felt a moment of sympathy with the Sniper and Spy. He wanted to hurt her, badly, to make her face redden and her mouth open in a wet oh of shock. It took him a moment to make his voice level, to conquer the urge to get up from his chair and join the two of them on the bed so he could feel that gasp against his skin. “That was not gentle, _wilde_. Be nice to the _Fräu_.”

The Cook looked at the Pyro, her eyelids heavy. Her thoughts had scattered like birds, driven out by the pain and the feel of the Pyro’s mouth and teeth on her neck. The dull throb of her neck beat with the drum of her pulse, and she turned her eyes to a slow survey of the man sitting in front of her, from the sweaty spikes of his hair to the powerful muscles under his chest, shifting under her gaze.

The Pyro grinned, unrepentantly. “She does not mind, Doctor.”

“No,” the Medic said softly. “I see she does not. A thing to ponder.”

The Heavy put a heavy leather bag in front of the Medic before dragging in one of the dining room chairs and shutting the door. As the Heavy settled into the chair, the Pyro cupped her breasts, rasping the scars on his thumbs across the sensitive flesh of her nipples. He smiled at her, then turned his head to look at the Medic. “Shall we play, Doctor?”

“Continue, Pyro. Be most kind to our _Kätzchen_. Let us see if she purrs before I play with her.”

The Pyro put a hand against the center of her chest and pushed gently. “Lay down, sweet Cook.”

When she settled back against the bed, he pulled the sweatpants from her, leaving her black panties as a stark contrast to the un-tanned skin of her waist and thighs, her hair a mass of scarlet ribbons trailing across the sheets. She watched him stand, kick off his shoes and push his jeans down, leaving his short, fat cock to bob gently. The scars on his chest continued down his body, leaving a rough patch on the side of his cock and swirling down his mostly hairless thighs. He crawled to her across the bed, dragging his hot skin along hers until he could lie beside her. His eyes, heavy-lidded and intent with hunger, looked down at hers, and he smiled, encouragingly. “It will be okay,” he whispered, and stroked her face.

At the sound of cloth moving, the Cook turned her head to see the Heavy pull his shirt over his head, watching the Medic. The Heavy knew his lover well enough to know that the seeming disinterest and distance he projected was a mask. The man was aroused, but as usual insisted on controlling it and himself, on dulling that need to a slow burn. The Heavy looked at the distant, glassy expression on the Medic’s face. He knew the man missed women, but the degree to which that longing affected his lover was worrisome. The Heavy looked over at the woman, at her body moving under the Pyro’s hands, and the Medic’s shortening breath.

The Pyro’s hot mouth closed over the Cook’s nipple, and she bit her lower lip, taking a sharp breath in through her nose as warmth spread its fingers through her. When she opened her eyes again, she looked down at the top of the Pyro’s head between her breasts, hair whirled and scalp pale. The tips of his fingers curled around her breasts, bringing them together with a warm, firm pressure so that he could alternate between nipples. She rolled her head against the bed loosely, looking over at the Medic, who dropped his shirt on the floor. A thin layer of fat did little to hide the back and chest muscles of a man who often carried a heavy load, the silver in his chest hair merely decoration. He sat back down in his pants and boots, and gestured at the Heavy. “The rest of it, now.”

 _It was not easy_ , the Heavy thought, _to obey him while they had an audience, this audience_. But he stepped out of his pants, a servant as much of habit as his lover, and sat back on the floor by the Medic’s knee, his eye drawn from the black leather of the Medic’s boot to the mouth-watering bulge in his slacks. The Medic looked over at him with a knowing, scorching smile on his thin lips. “We will get to that, Mischa.”

The Cook’s eyes fluttered closed again as the Pyro sucked hard enough to draw the whole tip of her breast into his mouth. When she opened her eyes again, the Heavy sat back on his heels, naked, by the Medic’s knee. The man was huge, a thick layer of fat over thigh muscles the size of both her legs, what the men at the bar referred to as hard fat—a layer of insulation over a body that could put his fist and another man’s head through a brick wall. The Medic rubbed the stubble of the Heavy’s head with a hand, idly stroking as one might a pet. The Heavy’s huge cock sat flaccid against his thigh as he waited patiently for the Medic to speak. The Medic watched the Cook as she moaned quietly, a streak of blood that had traveled his cheek to the hollows of his shoulders flaking as he breathed, his face cool and sardonically amused. The Medic raised his free hand, elbow on the arm of the chair, and cradled his chin on it.

“More noise, Pyro.”

The Cook turned her head to see the Pyro’s crooked smile. Changing his grip, he pinched her nipples first gently, then hard enough to bring prickling tears to her eyes. She gasped and he smiled gently at her, releasing them and stroking her breasts in lazy, warm circles. She shifted underneath him, a whine breaking through her lips.

“Sweet Cook is whining. I heard her beg. Will she beg for me?” The Pyro scooted down, lifting her thighs and settling between them. He rubbed his face against her panties, huffing the salty, sweet scent of her arousal, faint prickles of his stubble pricking her lips. The Pyro settled his hands under her ass and lifted it, nibbling first the tender skin around the edge of her panties and then in, nipping at her lips through the silk.

“Ohhh….” The Cook moaned, hips rolling in his hands. The first, rough lick through the silk was frustratingly faint. “No!” She reached down, plucking at her panties. “Please.”

The Medic looked at her swollen lower lip, sticking out in an unconscious pout. _She is delightfully transparent_ , he thought. _No guessing with this one_. “Not yet, _Fräu_ , not yet.” He reached for the back of the Heavy’s head and brought it toward the zipper on his slacks. “Not with your hands, Mischa. Open it with your mouth.”

The Heavy hooked his tongue around the zipper, pushing the flap over it down and bringing the zipper to his teeth. With a careful movement of his head, he dragged the zipper down.

The Cook made a sobbing noise in the back of her throat as the Pyro grazed her with his teeth, the sensation maddeningly softened by the fabric of her underwear.

The Heavy, his muscular lips and tongue aided only slightly by his hands, slid the Medic’s cock out of his slacks and sucked it into the back of his throat. The Medic grunted at the feel of the Heavy’s tongue tugging, rubbing the bottom of his cock with a heavy, slick warmth. The Medic took a sobbing breath, but did not dare close his eyes. Instead, he dug his fingernails into the skin of his palms, distracting himself from the Heavy’s exquisite skill with effort. He looked down briefly to see the slight curl of the man’s mouth. _Ah_ , the Medic thought with dark amusement, _so he’s going to play at jealousy, to prove himself the most interesting lover_. His toes curled in his boots as the Heavy freed his balls from his slacks without breaking suction. The Heavy caged the Medic’s balls in his fingers, a warm, gentle pressure that made the Medic’s eyelids flutter, then pulled his head away from the Medic’s cock. The Heavy sucked the Medic’s balls into his mouth, rolling his tongue over them. The Medic hissed at him and dug his fingers into the Heavy’s scalp. “Slow!”

The Cook growled and reached for the Pyro’s head, legs shuddering. The faint pressure of his tongue and mouth rode that fine line between tickling and enough pressure to let her finally have what she craved. The Medic barked at her, his tone roughened by arousal.

“ _Nein_ _!_ Hands down, _Kätzchen_.”

She curled her fingers into fists and bounced them off the bed as the Pyro teased her, tickling her inside of her thighs with a rough tongue and pulling gently at her clit until it pressed painfully against her underwear.

“Wet Cook,” the Pyro said between nibbles. “Will she beg?”

The Pyro’s eyes were crinkled at the corners with silent laughter as he looked up from between her legs, his face wet and slick. As she looked down at him, he took a slow, deliberate bite of the inside of her thigh, his eyes rolled up to watch her face, startling the words from her in a gush of sound. “Oh fuck, please.” She realized she was whimpering: faint, high sounds in the back of her throat pouring out of her with each breath.

“Beg me, _Fräu_ , not him.” She turned her head to see the Heavy’s head bobbing in the Medic’s lap. He looked at her, eyelids fat and lips swollen. An errant lock of hair had fallen in front of his face, a black wave dangling near one eye. His glasses had slipped down his nose, letting him look at her with unfocused, blue eyes. “You should always beg me.”

“Please, Medic. Please please please please oh god please…” She ran out of breath, watching the Medic’s body move with the Heavy’s head, chasing his mouth. The Medic’s head fell back the expose the long line of his throat and he moaned, eyelids fluttering. He pulled his head down before responding. “Very well, Pyro.”

With a pleased smile, the Pyro pushed her panties to the side and gave her a long, hard lick from bottom to top. The Cook shrieked, coming off the bed. With a muffled curse, the Medic pushed the Heavy from his cock. “Not yet, Mischa, not yet.” The Medic pressed the Heavy’s wet face to his thigh in his slacks and took a deep breath. “You may touch me, but it is not time.”

The Heavy put a warm hand around his lover’s cock, stroking. The Medic was rarely so sensitive, so easily aroused and quick. He teased his lover gently, watching the Medic’s face to see how close he could get him to the edge as his lover tried to concentrate on directing the scene in front of him.

Between the Cook’s legs, the Pyro pushed his tongue inside her. A shudder rippled through her, her breasts bobbing above his head. Her hips rolled above his tongue as he pulled it out, flicking her swollen clit. She whined again and tried to scoot forward, into his face, but was stopped by his clutching hands beneath her ass. The Pyro leaned forward and bit her clit gently, sucking at the small flesh between his teeth. Her whole body writhed on the bed, rolling and bucking against his mouth. He smiled, then bit the inside of her thigh hard enough to bruise. The Cook screamed, curling forward over his mouth with the sudden, visceral fear of being eaten. When he let go of the inside of her thigh, he left a ring of tooth marks stamped on the smooth flesh between them.

“Doctor, I want inside her.”

The Medic’s breath was short, his voice choked. “Make her work a bit. Put her on top.”

The Pyro pushed at her until she came up on her knees, then slid up between her legs. Grabbing her hips, he slid into her, pushing at the muscles of her cunt until he could fit himself in. “Better,” he announced. “Sweet Cook is a tight fit.”

His cock was too short to bump her cervix, but wide enough to make her feel full, stretched by his width and nearly uncomfortable. Her panties pushed him slightly to the side, rubbing against them both.

The Medic reached for the Heavy’s hand, stopping it, and took a slow breath. “Dance on him, _Kätzchen_. Make him happy.”

She slid her hips forward slightly, shifting the Pyro inside her. He reached a calloused, scarred hand between her thighs and gently stroked her clit, encouraging her. As she started to roll her hips harder, she saw him close his eyes. The fingers stroking her clit never stopped, even as the rhythm of her hips started to stutter. As she came, moaning hoarsely, his eyes fluttered open and he bucked up into her. “More, pretty Cook.”

The second orgasm came on the heels of the first, rolling through her like a current. While her cunt fluttered around him, the Pyro groaned and came inside her. She slumped over him, hair a fall across one shoulder and veiling his face. They panted together, faces inches apart, hearts hammering and then slowing. His eyes glittered up at her. “Pretty Cook. I should make you a brand, pretty Cook.” He bucked forward again. “So you can remember me.” She shivered as his cock rubbed inside her, oversensitive, her nipples still tight from the orgasm.

The Medic tucked himself back in his slacks and pushed the glasses back up on his nose, composing himself again. “Now that we have made the _Kätzchen_ purr, let us see if she will roar.” The Medic stood up, and reached into the leather bag, something clinking under his fingers. “Mischa,” he said, his voice muffled, “you will be my restraints, _ja_? And Pyro, pet the _Kätzchen_. She will need it.”

The Heavy stood, hands at his sides, and looked over at the Cook. His expression was briefly angry, then resigned. He stepped forward and put a knee on the bed, then lifted her up off the Pyro. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking at his face. “I don’t know what it is, but I’m sorry.”

The Heavy sighed. “It’s okay. Just was not expecting this.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, pulling away from him.

The Heavy scowled at her and tightened his fingers. “Stop. Is okay.” The bed creaked under the Heavy as he sat, pulling her down so that she leaned against his chest. He laced his broad arms across her chest beneath her breasts. She cringed slightly, and he sighed again, his breath stirring her hair. “Do not worry. Am not angry at you.” The cock that lay against her ass felt terrifyingly large, and he shifted until it was trapped upright, between them. The Heavy scooted until his back was against the wall, and cupped her against him, leaving her immobile, but warm. The Pyro sat back beside Heavy, pulling her thighs open and dipping once between them to part her lips and put her on display.

The Medic, standing with a small spiky wheel on a short metal handle between two fingers, clicked his tongue. “Mischa, you have only to say something, as you know.”

“Is fine,” the Heavy said, his voice starting to heat. “We will discuss later.”

“Very well,” the Medic said, his voice deeper with irritation. “We shall start easy.”

The Medic walked to the bed, grip firming on the handle of the wheel. Leaning over them both, he rolled the spikes gently across her skin from the top of her foot to the inside of her thigh, pricking the bruises made by the Pyro’s teeth. When she shifted, the Heavy’s arms tightened. “No, little one,” he said. “Be still.”

She could feel the slow drum of the Heavy’s heart against her spine and still wanted to shrink from him, from the anger she could feel boiling under his skin. When she twisted, the Heavy hissed, tightening his arms painfully. “Stop that.” The Heavy looked up at the Medic. “If you do not distract her, she will make a scene.”

The Pyro closed a hand over her breast and squeezed gently, the warm pressure coaxing, pulling a gasp from her in a wave of tingling warmth. The Medic leaned forward again, pressing the wheel down until it left a stinging trail of red dots in random patterns—first around a breast, then dipping between her legs to prickle her swollen lips. The Cook whined, rolling away from the wheel.

“Hush, _Kätzchen_.”

She pressed her lips into a hard line to keep herself quiet, watching the tiny metal points wheel across her skin. The Medic rolled over the arches of her feet, making her jump in Heavy’s arms. As the wheel ran lazy circles over her skin, it began to buzz, tingling and aching. She bit her lower lip and laid her head back against the Heavy’s chest, first bumping awkwardly into his chin, then tilting her head and settling into him as he craned his neck to look down at the Medic’s hands.

The Medic smiled up at the Heavy, teeth sharp. “Don’t worry, Mischa, I will not make you fuck her. But is not a bad view, _ja_?”

“No, Doctor,” the Heavy said, his voice still tight with anger. “I love your work.”

“Tighter now, Mischa. Pyro, play with this.” The Medic handed the spiked wheel to the Pyro, who thumbed it gently before rolling tightening circles around her breasts. At a rustling noise, the Cook peeped out between lowered lashes, then threw herself backward hard in the Heavy’s arms.

In front of her, the Medic twirled a scalpel to catch the light, scattering it across her face. “Well, _Kätzchen_ , will you say it? Will you tell me the word that stops me?”

The Cook panted, bucking in the Heavy’s arms, her legs straining on the bed. He swore and clutched her more tightly as she pushed up, raising them both a fraction of an inch in panic.

“You have only to say it, _Kätzchen_ ,” the Medic said, chiding gently. “Will you say it?”

The Heavy tightened his arms again, crushing her to his chest—inescapable, heart hammering against her back and in her chest. For a moment, she felt like she was flying, dizzied, out of herself. The circle of his arms pulled her down to earth, down to her body, now warm and loose. Her chest still heaved, but she stopped twisting in the Heavy’s arms. His cock gave a single throb against her as she went limp in his arms. The Heavy coughed, embarrassed. “Sorry, little one.”

“This always was your favorite part, wasn’t it, Mischa? Don’t worry, we will get to you.” The Medic laid the steel against the Cook’s nipple, watching it crinkle in response to the cold and her fear. He took a slow, shaky breath. “For this, _Kätzchen_ , you must be very still.”

Her eyelids were heavy again over her eyes, skin flushed and warm, a light dew of sweat beading on her skin. He noticed, with satisfaction, that confinement had done to her what he thought it might, making her feel safer, more relaxed because she could not get away. _A classic response,_ he thought _._ _Not too far out_ , _but best to check_. The Medic’s voice snapped out, sharp. “What is the word?”

Her voice drawled, slurring the word but still responding promptly. “Orange.”

“Very good, _Kätzchen_.”

The first line was parallel to the cut Sniper had made the previous day. The first second was cold, then the cut sizzled through her, crackling up the tree of her nerves. “I... ohhhh….”

The Pyro stopped his endless loops and whirls with the wheel to watch.

“ _Ja_ , I thought so. Your file was quite… explicit about your reaction to pain.” The Medic leaned forward, licking the line. His saliva stung and her hips jerked forward, involuntarily. His next cut spiraled delicately along the Heavy’s forearm. Behind her, the Heavy moaned, rattling her. The Medic bent, rubbing his face along the welling blood and smearing it across his mouth. A warm trickle dripped on her breasts from the Medic’s face, and he looked up at her, the blood smeared across his mouth and chin. “Pyro, don’t stop teasing the _Kätzchen_.”

The wheel descended on her again as the Medic alternated thin slices on her and the tensing Heavy. The Medic chuckled, the stinging pleasure of causing them both to buck and moan, the copper taste of blood in his mouth making him throb heavily in his slacks. “Some pleasures, _Kätzchen_ , are fine and sharp, rising slowly to their climax. We must be most careful where we cut.”

The Heavy, though his eyelashes, could see the distracted flush on the Medic’s face. His thoughts were slow, trickling like honey through his head as the pain of the cuts hollowed him out. His lover had, at times, gone into frenzy: cutting and cutting until the object of his desire was a limp, bloody mass beneath him. The Medic was enraptured, painfully hard in his slacks, his cheeks burning and eyes wet, descending into silence as the cuts grew more frequent. The girl curled against his chest had yet to experience the Medic at his most abandoned, and, the Heavy thought, could not bear nor understand what it meant to the Medic. The Heavy’s drugged voice curled out of his chest. “Doctor, your _Kätzchen_ is not in respawn. Must be careful.”

For a second, the Medic’s face contorted in dark rage. “ _Ja_ , Mischa, I know. We will fix this later.” His next cut, to the top of one of the Heavy’s thick thighs, was deeper. The Heavy drew a sobbing breath, and the Medic dipped his fingers into it. The Cook felt the Heavy’s cock soften slightly under the pain and rubbed herself gently against him in sympathy, then froze, knocked out of her rapture.

“Do not show him mercy, _Kätzchen_. He is not so delicate.” The Medic’s accent thickened. “This is true, is it not, Mischa?”

“Yes, Doctor.” Tension, the hot edge between enough and too much, gathered in him where he lay trapped between them, sweat slicking his cock as it rubbed against her. The Heavy bit his lower lip hard, pulling his thoughts away from the feel of himself sliding against her skin, increasingly desperate for release.

“There is more to pleasure than the orgasm, _Kätzchen_.” The Medic was breathing hard. As she watched, a drop of sweat rolled down the side of his neck. The muscles stood rigid in his arms and chest, flesh shivering as he fought for control. After a moment, he closed his eyes and the hills and valleys of muscle laid down. The Medic opened his eyes and sighed.

She felt the Heavy relax against her, slowly, inch by inch forcing his muscles to loosen. “Do not worry, little one. He is most careful of himself.”

The Pyro ran the wheel over the arch of her right foot as the Medic leaned over to make his first cut on her hip, tickling her. Bucking up into the scalpel, she sank it deep into the skin over her hip bone. When she sank back down with a gasp, the scalpel was bloodied to the beginning of the handle.

The Medic froze, watching the blood well up on the skin of her hip as her breath sped up, the expression on his face hungry and worried. This time, it was the Pyro that leaned forward to lick the wound, smearing his face in it roughly as she cringed against the Heavy. The Medic hissed at the Pyro, “Be good, or I will make you go.”

The Pyro smiled at him, guileless. “But it looks so fun.”

The Cook could not stop herself from a small moan—something in the shock of it, something in her nerves screaming and burning, the feel of the Heavy’s warm arms confining her and the Medic’s visible struggle to maintain self control despite the urge to violence. Something about the danger, and the fear, and the desperate pressure to orgasm she could feel pulling at her strings as if she were a puppet: she wanted their attention, wanted to be fucked and hurt and to scream herself hoarse, heat rising up her spine. Both men looked at her, blood smeared across their lips. It caught in the Pyro’s scars, making lighter and darker pockets across his face.

The Medic paused, and cleared his throat. “Let us stop the wheel for a moment.”

The Heavy and Cook grumbled together.

“Ah, see, they are quite alike. Heavy, scoot her down and pin her legs.”

The Heavy pushed at her shoulders, sliding her down until her head rested against the thick slab of muscle just above his pubic hair. His heels hooked against her legs, pulling them apart.

“The veins are quite close to the skin here, so you must be still or we will cause great damage. Remember your words, _Kätzchen_.”

She could hear her pulse in her ears, roaring, and the flesh of her thighs shook as the Medic laid the scalpel briefly against her clit, the metal still shockingly cold. Her breath huffed out, ragged, and she whimpered. As he traced the lines of her lips just lightly enough not to cut, the Medic described the blood vessels beneath the skin, alternating clinical words with guttural German. The Pyro climbed up on the bed, laying on one elbow to watch her face and the scalpel.

The Cook could not speak. Small, high pitched noises poured out of her mouth and her hammering heart beat as if trying to climb out of her chest. The dull side of the scalpel briefly pressed between her legs, picking up the liquid between them.

“Pretty Cook is still wet.”

“Oh yes, that she is. She is still not quite gone yet, so we shall have to work a little harder.”

The Cook’s eyes closed as the bag rustled again. A cold cream against her lips made her flinch. The cream rapidly warmed, itching and burning. The rushing in her ears grew louder as the fingers bearing the cream slipped inside her and she began to burn from the inside.

The Medic wiped his fingers on his slacks. “That should do it. Pyro, with your help?”

The Pyro pulled her limp body from the Heavy.

“On their knees, facing each other.”

“On the bed, Doctor?”

“ _Ja_. You may have her. I will take my Mischa.”

The Pyro pulled her to her knees, nearly mouth-to-mouth against the Heavy, whose sleepy blue eyes stared into hers. She watched a shudder ripple up his body as the Medic applied a mixture of the same cream and lube to him. The Pyro left her arms down, and guided himself into her with a contented grunt. The burning made him seem huge, and her slack mouth groaned. The Heavy echoed her seconds later, when the Medic thrust into him. Blood made a hot, slow trail down her hip.

“Let us see what noises we can make.”

The Pyro set up an ungentle rhythm inside her after pulling one of her arms up and putting her fingers on her clit. “Make noise, pretty Cook.”

The Medic grabbed the Heavy’s arms and pulled them up behind him, using them as levers to fuck the Heavy harder. The Heavy’s moans started quiet, but quickly became ragged, loud, and hoarse. The Medic chuckled breathlessly. “No, Mischa, you will not come until I let you.”

“Squeeze me, pretty Cook.” The wet slap of the Pyro’s hips against her reminded her of the previous night, of the ache she’d been ignoring all day.

When she came, she found the Heavy watching her. His eyelids slid closed again seconds later as the Medic gave a particularly vicious twist of his arms. Behind her, the Pyro’s rhythm started to stutter. “Give me another, pretty Cook. One more.” He grabbed her hips, lifting her slightly from the bed to get a better angle, and she howled.

Behind the Heavy, the Medic’s voice lost its smooth purr and he gasped. “You may touch yourself now, Mischa. Come for me.”

Seconds later, the Heavy’s face contorted and he roared, splattering the Cook’s bed. Watching him, and with the Pyro pounding into her, she came with a guttural cry.  The Pyro joined her, the warmth touching off a new wave of burning inside her. The Medic was the last to come, raking his fingernails in bloody furrows down the Heavy’s back as he did. When the Pyro pulled himself out of her, he curled against her headboard and pulled her down to him. “Relax, pretty Cook.”

The Medic pulled himself out of the Heavy and petted him absently. “Get the gun, Mischa.”

“What? No, I said I didn’t want to die!” The Cook scrambled backward, meeting the Pyro’s chest, and tried to climb over him. He grabbed her and pulled her into his chest, rolling with her and making soothing noises in her ear.

The Medic laughed quietly. “ _Nein_ , _Kätzchen_. This is not that kind of gun.”

The Heavy pulled a wide-mouthed, large black implement and a backpack from the bag, emptying it. He handed it to the Medic. “Very good, Mischa. You can go first.”

The Medic aimed the device, flicking it on with a practiced movement of his wrist, and a beam of red light curled around the Heavy. As she watched, the lines on the Heavy’s skin closed and he took a deep breath. The Medic turned, pointing the device at the Cook and Pyro. The beam itself was warm, intoxicating. The Cook went limp against the Pyro, who slumped down behind her.

“I don’t know what you put in that, Doctor, but it’s good.” The Pyro flicked sweat off his short hair and put his chin on top of the Cook’s head. “It’s as good as some of the things they gave me at the hospital last time I got burned.”

The Medic aimed the beam at himself for a moment, closing his eyes behind his lenses. “A little of this, a little of that. Nothing too bad.” He pushed the backpack to the floor and laid the device on top of it. “Come here, Mischa, and lay near me.”

The Heavy laid down, legs sprawling off the bed. The Medic propped himself up on his elbow and stroked the fur on the Heavy’s chest idly. “Pet the good _Kätzchen_ , Pyro.”

The Pyro stroked rough fingers down her arm, humming into her hair. The tune wandered quietly, merrily, tonelessly, and she realized the sound was comforting. He took a deep breath, nose pressed to her scalp, and sighed, contented. The Medic pulled off his sweat-dappled glasses and looked around, then handed them to the Heavy, who held them loosely in his hand. Without the glasses, his eyes were tired—less intense than overworked. “Tell me, _Kätzchen_ , what did our Sniper and Spy do together, with you?”

“Hmmm,” she said, unsure how to phrase what she’d observed, or even what to say. After a moment, she decided the comparison was probably apt enough. “They were a bit like you and Heavy.”

The Medic barked a laugh, the lines beside his eyes crinkling. “I should have known. They have been fighting like cats since they were assigned here. Mischa and I,” the Medic stroked his lover’s arm and gave him a brief smile, “came to our agreement in a more civilized fashion.”

The Heavy turned his head into his lover’s chest for a moment, unselfconsciously, high on the lingering effects of his orgasm. He gently kissed the Medic, then turned his sleepy gaze back to the Cook and Pyro.

“And which,” the Medic continued, his tone gentled by affection, “was on the top?”

“Oh. Both of them, I think. They talked about taking turns.”

The Medic smiled and looked off, speculatively. “Interesting. I am not surprised by our Spy—he is a flexible man. The Sniper, however… I wonder.”

The Heavy looked up at him, some of the bliss falling away. “Do not want to play with the Sniper. Would not let him have me.”

“Oh no, Mischa, I would not let that… man have you.” The Medic’s arms tightened, unconsciously, around the Heavy. “I would not let them top me, either. Tell me, _Kätzchen_ , how were they?”

The Cook blushed, a welter of emotions staining her face: guilt, embarrassment, remembered arousal. “It was… they’re complicated.”

The Medic crooked a dark eyebrow, a look so old-fashioned it had petrified. “I would think they were simple enough.”

“Well, in that way, yes.” She was too tired to do much more than blush and lay there, sweat cooling, but a flare of defensive anger spurred her to elaborate. “They’re very overwhelming, you know.”

The Medic’s smile was oddly endearing. “I would imagine. All balls and anger. The _tier_ is often frustrated. And the Spy would play games with his own mother.”

Over her head, the Pyro spoke. “I can play with them, but I don’t think they would stop me like you do, Doctor.”

“No, they would not.” Worry sharpened the Medic’s expression. “It is best if I get you in the respawn, _Kätzchen_.”

“What’s respawn?” The Pyro stiffened behind her for a moment in shock, and even the sleepy Heavy was startled awake. The Medic’s mouth hung open for a moment before he responded. She blinked, and curled slightly, embarrassed, as he spoke.

“RED did not cover this?”

“Not unless it was buried in the contracts I signed.”

“Ah,” the Medic sighed. “For many details, you will have to ask the Engineer. However, I can tell you that it will prevent you from dying.”

“How?”

“Well, when you die, you come back.”

“What do you mean come back?”

“You appear in the same shape you were when you were scanned.”

“Ah! That’s what they meant by not aging.”

“ _Ja_. Did they take a blood and tissue sample and do a scan?”

The process had been oddly long—she’d had gynecological exams that were much shorter. They’d scanned her, taken blood, tissue, urine, and hair samples, swabbed her, taken a saliva sample, looked in every orifice, and all but tagged and tattooed her during the five-hour process. “Well, yes, but they said that was for a physical.”

“It was, and they made sure you were clean. You are in the system, then. Did you get any shots?”

Her arms twinged in remembered pain. They’d given her at least four shots over a week of interviews, all of which had made her violently ill: vomiting and feverish. The doctors had been so closemouthed that they’d never introduced themselves. She’d assumed she was immune to everything and anything by the time they were done.

“They said something about problems.”

“Then you will not get pregnant. We will update the shot in a few months. This should have been in the file I was sent.” The Medic clicked his tongue. “No matter. I will call, and they will give me the records. No doubt someone was lazy.”

“Does… does it hurt?”

A complicated expression flew across his face, settling on pity. “ _Fräu_ , you die. Of course it hurts.”

The Cook huddled against the Pyro. “It’s not that bad,” he said, rubbing her back. “A few seconds, maybe longer, but you can always shoot yourself.”

She could hear her pulse in her ears again—a rushing sound that seemed to get louder. The blood left her face, draining painfully as the Medic continued. “Well, and at some point the other team may make it into the base and you will want the respawn.”

When she could catch her breath, she rolled her eyes up at him. “They said you have a small war going.”

“ _Ja_ …” The room was so silent she could hear the fans on the furnace kick in. “ _Ja_ , that we do.”

The Cook could feel each man’s thoughts turning inward, their eyes dulling and sliding away. The Medic and Pyro’s hands stilled. The Medic was the first to break the silence. “It is best, I think, if we go now.”

The Pyro spoke up behind her. “I can stay, Doctor?”

“No, it is best if you do not.”

The Pyro hissed, then slowly climbed over her. “We will see each other again, pretty Cook. Can you make German chocolate cake?”

The Cook looked at his face, hovering over hers. “Of course.”

“I would like that.” The Pyro pulled himself away and rolled off the bed.

As they dressed, the Cook pulled her stained covers up over her chest and watched. The Medic walked up to the bed. “A thing to know, _Kätzchen_. We are not nice men. Not all bad men, but not nice men. Some of us are better than others at… containing it. We will be most careful, but at some point, we may forget. If the BLU makes it into the base, you will want to hide. Take at least a knife, but you should also take a gun. If you do not know how to shoot, ask any of us. We are responsible for you to RED. They are not, and if you are lucky, they will simply kill you.”

He turned to walk away, speaking over his shoulder. “If you are not, they will take you with them. And you will be a toy they can break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Skinny Puppy, "Worlock" (particularly "Keep your eyes open. Soft spoken changes nothing.")


	8. Chapter 8

The Soldier sneaked up on the Cook in the kitchen again the next morning. He stood quietly behind her for a few seconds as she unloaded mugs from the cabinet. Balanced on her toes, she strained to empty the shelf. _Well_ , he thought, _she appears more or less okay. Whatever else the Medic gets up to, he wouldn’t seriously hurt her_. She moved easily, without any visible stiffness. He assumed she’d probably enjoyed the medigun. Lord knows he did, more than he wanted to. Whatever the Medic put in the thing was as good as any medication he’d been given for pain at a field hospital— _sans sorci_ , mercy in a bottle, the soldier’s friend—that vapor had something courtesy of the poppy. It wouldn’t surprise him if it was an intentional addition, something to ensure they’d come see the Medic.

Caught up in his own thoughts, the Soldier barked. “Are you well? Ready to go to battle again?”

The Cook caught the mug just in time, whipping around to face him. “What? Oh, yes, just fine.”

 _Shit_ , he thought. _I did it again_. _Fast reflexes, though_. “Good… Rosie. We must always be prepared. Let me help you with those.” He reached for the basket and then paused, his fingers hovering over the wicker. “Wait, are those foreign breads?”

The Cook looked down at the croissants. “What, these? No, they’re… freedom bread.”

“Well, they look like croissants.” He lifted one, turning it between two fingers as if afraid of contamination. _Paris was bad enough the first time_ , he thought. _Fussy, shouting, easily offended French men and their pretty wives. Flirty, touchy, and not serious about any of it_. _The food was good enough, but they made way too much of an event of eating_.

“Nope,” she said, pulling the croissant from his fingers with a grin. “This is the American version.”

His lips quirked, something just slightly short of a smile: her grin was infectious, unabashed, and even slightly cocky, something he’d been unsure she would be able to do after the last few days. The Soldier realized he rather liked her, the fact that she’d been able to bounce back. “Well, as long as they’re good, old-fashioned American bread.”

She pushed the basket at his chest, the movement startling him, already made vulnerable by his surprise at her resilience. He flinched, recovering to grab the wicker after a noticeable pause. One of his eyelids twitched, and she felt a wave of sympathy at the fragility she could see in his face.

The Cook froze. “Are you…”

His eyelid twitched again, but he smiled, a tired expression that quickly slid from his face. “Just peachy. Ready to go out and show those BLU what a real soldier looks like.” He was a tall man, and the act of denial seemed to shrink him, his spine bowing down beneath its weight. The small lines beside his mouth deepened, pulling his skin thin across the veins beneath it.

She closed her mouth and turned back to the platter of fried eggs. Something was there, something nasty that he had not spoken about or acknowledged. His eyes were full of it. The Soldier sat at his place at the head of the table and started to load his plate. His shoulders under the tank top were high, a fine tremor rustling the cotton. Before the rest of the mercenaries came in the room, she slid around him and sat a close chair. “Solly? I need a gun. Where would I get one?”

“I’ll get you one after breakfast. You need to be prepared.” His hand hovered over hers for a second, hesitant and longing for the comfort of touch, then he drew it back and picked up his fork. “Have you had training?”

She shrugged, her arms folded on the table. “Nothing really organized. More just hunting, like as a kid.”

He sliced a fried egg, staring into his plate, and mumbled. “I’ll take you out rest day to the range.”

The Cook took a breath and then shook her head once, a small movement to remind herself not to say anything else. Prying wasn’t likely to endear her to anyone on base, especially not someone with the kind of burden the Soldier appeared to be suffering beneath. As the rest of the mercenaries trickled into the room, she watched the Soldier draw himself up and begin to bellow. “You maggots are the most pathetic group of soldiers I’ve ever seen.”

The Spy ran his fingers through his wet hair, leaving grooves, and growled. “It is entirely too early for this.” He picked up the French press and pressed the plunger down slowly before pouring a cup. The Spy drained half the cup in a single swallow before seeing the croissants. “What is this?”

“Freedom bread,” the Soldier yelled. “We have taken your weapons and used them against you, Frenchie.”

The Spy looked over at the Cook. “This had better not be from a can.” He took a tiny nibble of the side of the pastry, then came back for a bite. Dark chocolate oozed out of the hole in the croissant and he licked it from his chin. “ _Mon dieu_ , _Vipere_ , this is actually worth eating.”

Seeing the chocolate, the Pyro pounced on the basket and loaded his plate. The Cook was relieved to see he didn’t empty the entire basket, and reminded herself to always make five times the amount of sweets necessary to feed everyone. The Engineer pried the basket from the Pyro’s hands and took one of his own, passing it around the table. The Demo held his hands up when the basket reached him.

“It’s too early for sweets, lass.”

“Speak for yourself,” the Pyro mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate. “It’s never too early.”

“No, it’s never too early for scrumpy.” The Demo poured two fingers of moonshine into his milky tea and capped his flask. He drained the tea quickly, with only the smallest of grimaces, and shivered as the liquor spread fire through his stomach.

“Already? You’d better be glad you don’t have to hit precision targets.” The Sniper sipped his coffee, long fingers slowly drumming the mug between sips, flexing and tapping them to warm them up. “It’s a damn good thing you only have to be close.”

“I have to be close all right, not hiding away in a hole. Do yeh hide because yer afraid of BLU or because yer yellow?”

The Sniper stared unblinking at the Demo over the yellow lenses of his glasses, his fingers stilling on the mug. “Would you like me to demonstrate what I do? I’ll take the fee for team-killing to make a point.”

“You make everything into a competition, Sniper.” The Spy eyed Sniper up and down, his lip lifting in a sneer. “One might think you were compensating for something.”

At the end of the table, the Medic smiled secretively over the rim of his teacup and said nothing.

“Would ya’ll stop it for just one meal?” The Engineer’s fork squealed against his plate as he cut an egg. “It’s enough to put a man off food, listening to it.”

“Oh man,” said Scout to the Cook, jerking his thumb at the Spy and Sniper. “They never shut up.” He tore a croissant in half and stuffed it in a cheek, his voice muffled by food. “They fight like a pair of old women over everything. My ma had this lady that lived two doors down that she hated and even they didn’t fight this much.” He swallowed noisily and drew a breath to speak.

“Like you, rabbit?” The Sniper stood up. “Right quiet, you are.” He snagged a croissant and walked out of the room. The Cook saw the Spy watch him out of the corner of his eye before busying himself with the last bite of croissant.

“Very good, _Vipere_. Tell me,” the Spy said, stifling a yawn, “have you roasted a rack of lamb?”

“Yes,” she said, wiping her mouth. “Only once, but yes.” Very few of the restaurants she’d worked for had thought rack of lamb to be worth the effort and cost of having as a regular menu item, though one had tried it and discovered that like many specialty meals, the work to assemble the dish was a bit prohibitive and very easy for trainee chefs to ruin—the sheer volume of accidental lamb jerky on the day they’d been allotted to train for the recipe had convinced the owner not to bother. She had bought several of the requisite racks with her, assuming she’d have enough creative freedom to play with her food.

“Mint sauce?”

The Spy’s mildly skeptical expression annoyed her. The sauce itself was not complicated, and the condescension with which he’d greeted the question made her itch to slap the man. “I can.”

“Soon.” With that, the Spy stretched and stood up. “I shall go prepare. But before I go, _Vipere_ , the Engie and Demo have not stopped insisting that we ask your preferences for company this evening.”

The Engineer flushed. “Look here, Frenchie, you make it sound bad.” He turned to the Cook, his eyes pleading. “We can wait, but we think you should get a little more input.”

“Aye,” the Demo said, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the table, his expression serious. “Our friends are boors. We’d like yeh to have more voice.”

The Cook looked around the table, meeting the eyes of the Scout, the Demo, and the Engineer—eagerness, curiosity, and an apologetic cringe, respectively. The Soldier looked at the floor, the wall, the table, her eyes with a flash of interest, then back to the wood of the table, studying the grain in minute detail. The Scout’s cheerful eagerness was easy enough to understand. She wasn’t quite sure what the Demo wanted. His mild curiosity seemed, if not disinterested, then not sexual. The Engineer seemed as if he’d prefer, just then, to crawl under the breakfast table—but why? Her eyes narrowed in thought, and her lower lip crept between her teeth involuntarily, a gesture she’d had since childhood. She realized she was biting it and pulled it from between her teeth, an abrupt gesture that made a quiet pop in the silence of the room. She didn’t feel like dealing with any of it: the eagerness, the curiosity, the embarrassment. The only person in the room who’d warned her, or for that matter offered to help her was the Soldier, whose intent study of the grain of wood on the table had, surprisingly enough, not burned a hole in it. “I think, actually, I’d like to spend a little time with Soldier.”

The Scout caught his lower lip in his buck teeth. The Demo shrugged, pushing himself away from the table and pulling his bandoleer to straighten it. The Engineer stared at her, mouth slightly open for a moment before speaking. “What? Solly?”

The Soldier looked up at her through the shadow of his helmet, his eyes a dulled gray. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Solly,” she said, staring at the Soldier, whose cheeks had reddened. “You said you’d show me the range and get me a gun.”

He blinked, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly, but nodded. “I’ll be right back.” Rising from the table, he strode quickly from the room, walking hard enough to jostle the dishes and cups on the table—a walk just this side of a stomp.

“Yo. Yo babe,” the Scout said, and stood, mischief lighting his face as he pointed down at his crotch. “If you want to play with a gun, I’m right here.”

The Cook stifled a laugh. His cheeky gesture was comic in its sincerity. “I’ll get there, Scout.”

Behind him, the Engineer cleared his throat. “Miss, be a little careful with Solly. He’s got a temper.”

“Yeah,” the Scout said. “One time, I saw him jump off a ledge to land on the BLU Pyro, spade first. He damn near decapitated the poor bastard for killing him a few times.”

She blinked. The Soldier had not shown her anything that resembled anger, instead seeming tentative, even shy and as if he wanted to please. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Miss, would you let me give you a little alarm, just in case?” The Engineer shifted in his seat, metal hand flexing on the table with a faint screech. “I could whip one up while I’m working today. Maybe a little something on a necklace?”

“I think he’d notice.” The Cook was starting to think that this was a way of picking on the Soldier—a running gag that had long since lost its humor—claims that the man was violent, or even that he was angry. _Would an angry man come to the kitchen early and set the table_ , she thought, _or be so afraid to touch that he’d kiss a woman on the cheek instead of the mouth?_

“Yeah, but Solly can be a little,” the Engineer paused, watching the mulish expression on her face, “volatile.” _Dear lord_ , he thought. _She really is a little simple_. _Or Solly’s been a charming shit_.

“I’ll be fine.”

The Engineer sighed. _Some people_ , he thought, _had to make all their mistakes on their own_. “All right. At least you’re in respawn, so anything he might get up to won’t be permanent.” _Well_ , he amended himself silently, _in the strictly physical sense_. _Of course, if she hasn’t run screaming by now, maybe she won’t_. _What kind of woman did they send?_

“Do you really think he’ll,” she trailed off, hand making helpless circles. She couldn’t picture the Soldier doing anything of the kind—couldn’t picture him doing anything violent, for that matter. She knew he fought. They all fought. But the man who’d kissed her cheek in the kitchen seemed incapable of doing her violence.

“He might. You never know with Solly. Or with Pyro, for that matter.”

“Hey,” the Pyro said, around his last croissant. “I behaved. Ask the Doctor.”

“That you did.”

“He did,” said the Cook. “He was quite nice.” She shifted in her chair, the movement reminding her pleasantly of the previous night.

“Well, yeah, but he was being supervised. Do you want one of us in with you and Solly?”

The Soldier returned, carrying a heavy pistol and a loaded clip. The surly expression on his face announced that he’d heard at least part of the conversation. “One of what, maggots?”

“Nothing, Solly,” the Engineer said, holding his hands up. “Just making conversation.”

The Soldier glared at the Engineer for a moment, then bent down to look the Cook in the eyes, expression serious. “First thing. Don’t put it in your pants loaded or you’ll shoot your nuts off.”

The table burst into laughter.

“Oh for cryin’ out loud! You know what I mean.” The Soldier shifted foot-to-foot, faint spots burning high in his cheeks. “I didn’t load it because you’ll need to learn how to load it. See the shape of the handle? See the groove? Line up the clip and push it in until it clicks.”

The Cook grabbed the gun, which lay heavy and cold in her hand. The clip was full of bullets with little divots in their lead heads, the jackets shiny brass that reflected her face. She carefully lined up the grooves and pushed the clip in until it clicked in her hand.

The Soldier pointed to a small lever on the side of the gun. “That is the safety, soldier. When you want to shoot, you just flick it down. Don’t do it now.”

He pointed again, to the top of the gun. “When you want to chamber a round to start shooting, you flick off the safety and pull this. This is the slide. Don’t do that now.”

From his belt pouch, he pulled a coiled belt and holster. “Stand up. I had to guess at the size, but this should fit.”

When the Cook stood, he reached around her gingerly, avoiding contact. He fed the tongue into the belt, pulling it tight, then fastened it, stepping back. “Okay, you put the gun in that and fasten the strap over it.”

The Cook looked down, using both hands to slide the gun into its holster and click the strap down over the butt of the gun. “Hey, Solly?”

“Yes?”

“Is there somewhere to put my knives?” Like many of her fellow chefs, she had her professional knives and her personal knives—few restaurants paid enough to keep their chefs out of rough neighborhoods, and a knife served as a friendly little reminder to others to keep their distance.

“We can fix that later. Battle waits for no man, nor any of these foreign fucks.”

The Heavy laughed sadly, drawing his ballistic jacket on with an absent shrug. The Medic placed his cup down neatly in his saucer. He stood, and they walked out of the room together, the Medic slightly trailing his lover.

“Toots, a kiss for luck over here?”

The Cook blew him a kiss, answering his mischievous gesture earlier with a teasing flippancy and a dirty smile. “Good luck.”

The Scout put his hands to his heart and spun on a heel, his overreaction intentionally comic. “You’re killing me.”

The Engineer stood up and sighed heavily. “Not yet, son. That’s BLU’s job.”

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Cook could hear the announcer from the kitchen, calling the time and announcing captures. She wove a thick, unwaxed string through the Frenched rib bones of a rack of lamb, drawing them together into a crown. “Well,” she said, comforting herself, “it isn’t like I had a dinner plan yet. And this ought to shock that French fuck.”

Behind her, someone cleared their throat. “Yo… you.”

She turned. The Scout walked toward her, his pace slow. “Hey, lady, whatcha doin?” He stared at her, not breaking eye contact as he crossed the kitchen.

The Cook felt something cold creep down her back at the look on his face—the flippancy and humor of his expression was gone, leaving something malicious and calculating. “Making rack of lamb… Scout.” Her hand pawed the counter behind her, nicking her fingers on the flaying knife before finding its handle.

“Just makin’ food, huh?” His gaze wandered slowly up and down her, an accounting very different than his first, cheerfully raunchy survey. “Just like that.”

“That’s what I do, Scout. I make food.” She bought the knife up between them, the little hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. Whatever or whomever this man was, he was not the Scout. The Scout’s loose limbed strut was gone, leaving the careful, rolling walk of a predator.

He focused on the thin sliver of steel between them, then looked past it at the gun in its holster at her waist. “I see that knife, lady. The gun isn’t good enough for you?”

“A good cook always keeps good knives.” If, as she suspected, she was about to fight whomever this was, she wanted something she was comfortable using. Knives had always been her friend, and the same creeping sense that held the hairs on her neck up told her to keep something she knew she could use.

He chuckled, the noise lower than Scout’s normally high laugh. “I see. And if I asked what else you did, what would you tell me?”

“Nothing. Not a damn thing.” The Cook tensed, but before she could swing the knife, the Scout bounded across the kitchen and grabbed her arm with one hand and put the other over her gun. The air rippled, and the Cook found herself looking at a balaclava and a pair of eyes so dark they were nearly black. His blue, pin-striped suit was surprisingly neat for battlefield attire—the cotton clean of blood.

The man made a thoughtful hum in the back of his throat, the tone a surprisingly warm tenor. “We appear to have a bit of a problem… Cook.”

She pushed up against his arms with both hands, painfully moving him a few inches away from her. The man, whomever he was, was heavy and clearly strong. The effort had started a line of sweat across her forehead and reddened her cheeks. Aside from a quiet grunt, he appeared to be holding her arms without effort. “Who the fuck are you?”

His grin in the balaclava was brilliant against the dark material. “No one special.”

“You’re the other team’s spy, aren’t you?” He had to be. She couldn’t picture any of the rest of the team wearing this kind of formal clothing out on the battlefield. It was just like the RED Spy, and apparently his counterpart, to wear the kind of binding, uncomfortable clothing to a war.

His lips twisted wryly. “You’re an observant thing.”

She looked down the line of his body and realized, like far too many men before him, that he hadn’t bothered to pin her legs, a mistake he was about to regret. “Fuck you,” she said, and brought her knee up into his groin hard enough to feel his balls roll under her kneecap. The BLU Spy hissed and head-butted her in the nose. When her head lolled back, he scuttled backward, making a whining noise through his nose. After a moment, he had enough air to gasp. “You’re a feisty little bitch, aren’t you?” He straightened, stiff with pain.

The Cook scrubbed at the trickle of blood from her swelling nose with her free hand, the knife bobbing in front of her. “Why don’t you come closer and find out?”

“And risk another cheap shot? No, I’ll come back later.”

The air around him rippled and he disappeared. The Cook edged around the counter with her back to the door, trying the air in front of her with the knife, before closing and locking the kitchen door. She backed into a corner, her free hand pressed against her chest. The blade of the knife shook in front of her. She realized she was making high pitched, animal noises and put her free hand to her mouth. She shook violently, finally biting her hand to focus herself. Her mouth sagged open with the pain and she whimpered. The door shook from impact and she jumped, stabbing the air in front of her.

“Yo! Hey, lady! Have you seen a scumbag in a blue suit around here?”

It took her three tries to speak. “You just missed him.”

“You okay, lady?”

Her voice sounded odd, even to her. “Just fine, Scout.”

“Lady, he ain’t in there, is he?”

With a painful tingle, the blood drained from her face, the room reeling around her. “Oh god, I hope not.”

“Well, you keep the door locked.” The Scout paused. “Whatever you’re making, it smells fantastic.”

The Cook swore and dove at the stove, the knife skittering across the counter. The first bitter edge of burnt sugar wafted through the kitchen as she opened the oven door—the edges of her cakes had blackened.

“Gotta go, lady.”

She heard the sound of his sneakers squeak into the distance and nursed a burned hand. On the stove, eight cake pans steamed into the air. The Cook sat down next to the stove, staring through the tile, and waited for her heart to stop pounding, for the adrenaline crash to fade from her buzzing head. She mechanically finished dinner without unlocking the door, dragging her knife through the kitchen as she worked.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

It took the Engineer an hour to convince her to open the door, and only after the Demo and Medic had confirmed that he was the Engineer. When he walked into the kitchen, he found her back in the corner, still clutching the knife.  “Which one did you meet?”

“The spy.”

“Oh.” He fumbled in mid-air, then put his hands on his hips. “Shit, it could have been worse. It could have been the other Pyro.”

She looked up at him, her face a blank.

“I’m not helping. Come on, Missy, come eat.” He offered her a hand up which she ignored, then turned and walked out of the kitchen. She followed him out to the table silently, knife upright in her hand. The Engineer, looking over his shoulder, scooted out of the doorway and put his back to the wall. “Our Cook here had a close encounter with the BLU Spy today,” the Engineer announced to the room.

The Medic winced—they’d all had the horrible, icy burn of his knife slipping into their spine from behind. The BLU Spy had a veritable genius for catching them unaware and punishing their distraction. “ _Fräu_ , are you well?”

She looked up at the Medic, still stunned, a fine tremor moving the point of the knife in the air. “I kneed him in the balls.”

After a moment of shocked silence, the room erupted in laughter.

“Oh Christ, you got old Stabby in the nuts?” The Scout fell over his arms, howling.

The Engineer patted her gently on the back, leaning away from his own arm in case she turned with the knife. “That’s really good. You must have shocked the hell out of him for him to let you that close.”

“I have always said that man lacked a certain professionality,” said the Spy, lolling on his chair.

The Sniper looked at her, a sharply nasty grin on his face. “I said you’d do just fine.”

The Soldier cocked his head, peeping out at her from under his helmet. “Rosie, do you want company tonight?”

“He said he’d come back later.” The fingers of her free hand clutched at the table. She was going to fall asleep and that invisible man would come find her—who knows what he’d do? She’d kneed him in the balls, a strike so personal that she had no doubt he’d want revenge. She was going to wake up in the middle of the night to see those dark eyes in the balaclava and … she couldn’t stop thinking about him disappearing. He could be anywhere. _Anywhere_.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him.” The Soldier awkwardly patted her hand, resting his hand briefly against hers on the table. The mercenaries could see it when it hit her. The colors in the room sharpened and she flushed, taking a deep breath. The blood in her ears sang— _alive. Alive. She was still alive_. Her skin tingled, pulse surging through her, and she could feel it rush through the small trees of her veins. _Alive_.

“There it is, lassie.”

She looked over at the Demo, eyes glassy. Warmth spread through her like a tide. “I want… I…” Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t focus her thoughts on anything but the thrum and the word _alive_ , echoing through her. She wanted to shout, or run, her nerves like plucked strings: sweat and the body screaming to move, to do something.

“Perfectly normal, lassie. Every one of us has had the feeling at least once.”

The Engineer chuckled. Her skin was incandescent, pupils drowning wide and black, her hair like a flame against her skin. She was panting, and the knife had slipped from her hands onto the table. Her head turned slowly, trying to find the voices. _Drunk_ , he thought, amused, _on adrenaline_. _It’s been a long damn time since I felt that way_. “She’ll be lively company tonight, Solly, if you can keep her from crying.”

“Do you really want to eat?” The Soldier squeezed her hand gently, searching her face. Her head turned slowly, those huge eyes finding and devouring his face. She sat, silent, simply absorbing him. _Can you_ , he asked silently. _Can you talk? Is anyone in there?_

“No one wants to eat a burned roast,” the Spy said, dryly, and poked the chop in front of him.

The Cook squeezed the Soldier’s hand back hard, surprising a wince from him. “I’m not hungry.”

“I think you are,” said the Sniper. “But not for food yet. Might want to pack a sandwich, Solly. It’s liable to be a long night.”

“We are just fine, maggots!” The Soldier let her pull him from the room. “We will be just fine,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Catcalls followed them from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Front Line Assembly, "Vanished"


	9. Chapter 9

The Cook kept walking down the hallway, towing him determinedly behind her, passing door after door. By the time she’d nearly reached the outside door, the Soldier realized she was mindlessly moving, burning off the adrenaline—he wondered if she would stop when she opened the outside door or keep marching into the desert, driven by the need to move, to feel. “Rose,” he said quietly, pulling back on her hand. “Rosie!”

She turned to him, eyes wild and unfocused, breathing heavily. Her hair had fallen in heavy hanks from her customary bun, sweat curls sending it in waves across her shoulders. The bun itself, skewed and hanging sideways, shivered with her breath.

“Rosie, my room was back there.” The Soldier gestured over his shoulder with a thumb and pulled her again. “Come on.” She let him reel her in, that same unfocused gaze looking through him. He watched her for a moment, waiting for some part of her to come back, some sign that she could hear him. She simply stared, dumbly, standing inches from him, head tilted as if hearing a distant sound. The Soldier sighed. _Nothing_ . She wasn’t there, wouldn’t be there until the adrenaline stopped pumping through her veins. _Well_ , he thought with a surge of irritation, _this isn’t what I planned, but when does it ever work out like I planned?_

“Right. Okay, Rosie. Up you go.” The Soldier bent, sweeping her feet out from under her and picking her up like a child, legs dangling over his arm and body curled into his chest. “We’ll just go in here and talk, okay?”

The Cook turned her glassy gaze to him, finally focusing on the chest close to her and following his neck up to his face. She made a noise in the back of her throat and swept his helmet off his head to clatter on the concrete floor of the hall, exposing tawny stubble. She reached up to run her fingers across the prickly expanse of his scalp, backward and forward as if fascinated by the texture.

The Soldier winced, but his arms tightened. “Oh, I’d be happy enough, Rosie, but I’m not that kind of Jane.” _Christ_ , he thought, _don’t let me be that kind of man_.

Distantly, beneath the increasingly discordant jangle of her nerves, she felt his arms tighten—the sensation of being compressed quieted the painful ringing in her body, and she wanted more, something to bring her away from the surge of her pulse in her ears and the sensation that she might fly apart. The Cook grabbed his ears, pulling his head down and licking at his lips. The Soldier growled in the back of his throat and wrenched his ears free. “Goddamn it, Rosie.” _Please don’t let me be that kind of man_ , he thought, followed treacherously by the thought that it had been so long. _Too long_.

He managed to get the door of his room open juggling her in his arms as she licked at the side of his neck, trying to turn. The Soldier kicked the door closed, crossing his room with long strides, and dumped her on his bed as if she were burning him. He stepped back, brushing the dun-colored MRE box for lasagna off the foot of his bed. “Calm down, Rosie.” He realized he was breathing heavily, as much with the effort of juggling her as with wrestling himself. _Goddamn it, I have to look myself in the mirror tomorrow_ , he thought. _She won’t talk to me. Does she even want me here? I can just talk to her, should just talk until she comes back and can say something to me._

She pulled her knees to her chest and stared up at him, mute, the painful wrench of her nerves roaring back in the distance between them. Even wrapping her arms around her knees and pulling them to her was not enough to still her. The Cook pleaded at him with her eyes, a small, sad frown on her face that made the Soldier feel mildly guilty. _Come on_ , he thought. _Give me a sign. Give me something_.

“Rosie, I need you to talk to me.”

She reached for him again, dropping her knees to kneel on the bed. With a lunge, she caught his belt and pulled him toward her, her gaze falling down to the buckle on his belt and growing determined. The Soldier closed his eyes, body responding to the hands pulling at his belt. He’d pictured this moment over and over—on her knees, looking up at him, desire warming her face. “Rosie, honey, don’t tempt me. Come on, talk.” _I can’t do this. Jesus. I can’t do this._

She popped the metal up and pulled the belt of its loops hard enough to burn her hands, her lower lip between her teeth. Her fingers wormed beneath his uniform shirt, tugging at his undershirt and finding the warm skin between his navel and the edge of his pants. She tried to force them beneath the line of his fatigues, seeking. A slow wave of tingling heat rolled up his spine, and he took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. She forced her fingertips under the edge of his fatigues, finding and just brushing the erection he’d been trying to ignore. The Soldier took a short, sharp breath and grabbed her hands. “Please, Rosie. Say something.”

The Cook looked up at him, disappointment prickling tears from her eyes. He could see her mouth a word, lips moving, air gushing from her mouth without sound. After the second try, he could recognize the word— _please_.

“Rosie, I…” The Soldier realized he was squeezing her wrists, that her lips had stopped moving and instead framed a silent oh, blood rushing under her skin and tinting it. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she relaxed into his hands. With a surprised grunt, the Soldier squeezed again, leaving bluish fingerprints on the meat of her arms, and she made a quiet, choked moan that he felt like an electric shock up his spine. “Oh,” he said, and blinked furiously. “Oh!” _Well I’ll be buggered with a bandsaw_ , he thought. _Yes, she is_.

He released her wrists and put both hands on the front of her t shirt, ripping it in half. She opened her eyes and whimpered, tugging at his uniform shirt. He unhooked the first three buttons and yanked it over his head, clearing the undershirt as well.

“Up a bit on your knees, Rosie.”

When she knelt up, he unlatched her bra and tossed it over his shoulder. He stopped, looking down, and smiled. _Not quite_ , he thought, _what I pictured but a rather nice view_. She sank back on her heels and pulled the first button on his pants through its hole.

“Oh no, Rosie, I’ll finish this.” He sat on the edge of the bed, unlaced his boots, and pulled them off, wriggling his toes with pleasure. The Cook pressed herself against him, raking her fingernails against his back and making needy little noises in his ear. She couldn’t think, couldn’t string words together. Her head felt like it was on fire, her skin burning with the need to live and be reminded of living, with the need for the pressure of his skin on hers, soothing the nerves now screaming at her.

The Soldier stood and stepped out of his pants, then leaned over to unbutton hers. He jerked them off, catching them first on her shoes and then flinging them across the room. Her shoes, socks, and underwear followed, the underwear catching on the ceiling fan, off for the winter. She lay, reaching up for him with a faint, greedy little grunt, arms reaching to pull him down. He stood, looking down at her for a moment, watching alarm and hunger chase across her face, desire pulling at him like a tide. He knelt on the bed, looking at the secretive smile on her lips as he closed the distance between them. _Mine. Right now_ , he thought, _you’re all mine_. _I can smell you. I know what you want._

“I don’t think you’re all that patient tonight, Rosie.” He hooked her heels and pushed her legs apart. “I’m not feeling all that patient either, and I think you’ll be fine if I…” He finished his sentence by guiding himself into her, reflexively grabbing the back of her thighs to anchor himself. Her arms stretched up over her head and she dug her fingers into the sheets, then came up on her elbows to meet him, to press her skin against his. He let her draw him into a kiss, feeling himself slide inside her as she scooted up to reach his lips—heat, wet and slick, and her tongue against his. Hunger. He could feel it pouring off her, the animal desire to fuck, and he wanted to drown himself in it, to bury himself inside her and feel her shuddering around him. Sitting back on his heels, he dragged her ass up until she was bowed over his knees, body stretched into a tight curve and legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Her muscles tightened and he had to move, to push back against the wet, elastic warmth sucking at his cock. _So close. God, so close already. Too long. It’s been too long and I.._. “Rosie, I don’t think I’m going to…”

His voice failed as she squeezed him, rippling around his cock. She growled, a guttural warning, sitting up against gravity, and reached down to dig her fingernails into his straining thighs like spurs, urging him on. “Fuck it,” he muttered, and rammed himself into her hard enough push the air out of her lungs in a long huffing gasp. Bouncing her on his thighs, he dug his fingers into the back of her thighs and pushed them up until she could kiss her own kneecaps. It was almost pain, the tension drawing him up, up, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to come, to let himself fall into the heat, the slick pressure.

“I’m going to have to change positions soon, Rosie, this is tooooohhhh.” The Soldier closed his eyes and dug his hands into her thighs, stilling her. “Give me a second.” His eyes squeezed shut, and after a tense moment, he opened his thighs, dropping her down. She could feel him throbbing in her, could see the battle in his face, his eyes screwed shut, sweat trickling down the rigid muscles of his jaw. She hissed at him and squeezed again, trying to force him over that edge so that she could see it, see him get lost.

He opened his eyes narrowly and pushed her thighs toward the bed. _No, Rosie, no you won’t_. _I’m not going first_. He moved shallowly, slowly, pushing up slightly and grinding himself against her clit. She whimpered, going limp, and he smiled, a drop of sweat falling from his forehead and splattering against her breast.

Her head lolled, rolling on the bed, and she reached up for his arms as he thrust, her knees bouncing. He dropped his hands to the bed to get better support, the hitch in her breath and the increasing tension around his cock telling him soon. _Soon_. The Soldier gritted his teeth again, trying to hold out for just a little longer, until she let go.

She could feel the warmth gathering between her legs, the nerves that had been screaming now frantically pumping heat through her, a mindless pleasure that left her gasping. She stretched her legs wider with both hands, digging her nails into her thighs and feeling herself tighten, tighten, tighten, and then it broke over her and she screamed, high and hoarse. He could have cried in relief, the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain finally breaking with one last thrust, hard enough to scoot her backward on the bed. He yelled, a wordless, loud bellow that echoed in the room. If he could have spoken, he would have screamed the word “finally.”

When he opened his eyes, he found her staring at him.

“Feeling,” he panted, “better, Rosie?”

She gave a long, slow blink, languid and sated. “Yes, actually.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Good. You wouldn’t talk to me, but you were damn well humping me. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I was a little distracted.” They stayed like that, staring at each other. Her thighs started to cramp and he started to slowly slide out of her, but she kept looking at him, looking at the scar next to his eye. He watched her, watched the small expressions slide across her face, his arms starting to shake with exhaustion— _what kind of woman are you_ , he thought. _Who did they send us?_

After a few seconds, she finally spoke. “You don’t normally like touch, do you?”

His face went blank and he pulled himself out of her without a word, body wooden and clumsy, empty, the vulnerability of desire making it easier to be vulnerable to every emotion.

She was briefly pleased, recognition and comfort buried under shame—he had withdrawn, the mind shutting the body down to save itself. It meant she was not alone. It meant he had his own childhood demons, that she’d summoned one.

“Wait, please. I’m sorry, Solly.” She remembered: her body becoming distant as fog and the record of her memories cutting her to ribbons. _How selfish am I_ , she thought, _that I would be happy to see anyone in that dark place?_ _Selfish girl_. Her mother’s mouth moving. _Selfish, selfish girl_. She pulled herself back to the present with a wrench and a shudder. He paused, and her hand hovered over his arm. “Please, Solly, I’m sorry. Please come back.”

His shoulders hunched, the skin around his eyes twitching. He wanted to go now. _Go somewhere. Get away_. Nights in the closet, stroking the skin of his arms to comfort himself, his father roaring in the other room. _Gonna find you, boy. Gonna get you, you little fucker_.

“Solly, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m very sorry.”

 _Sorry_ , he thought and sat back on the bed, looking at her warily, exhausted. _Sorry for what? What could you possibly understand?_

“Please, Solly, please come back. I won’t ask any questions, I promise.”

He crawled back slowly, heavily, and lay a few inches from her, his head pillowed on one arm. The silence stretched out as he watched her.

“Want to hear a story?”

He nodded cautiously, and she told him about her first job. She described being one of the only women in the kitchen, and the jokes the men told around her. She described learning to flense bones, and how to pick produce. When she got to describing a particularly complex recipe involving ox tail, he interrupted her, words rushing out with his breath.

“How could you tell about me?”

“I can’t. Not exactly. But I have my own problems, and if you have ‘em, you can see ‘em.”

He reached out, hesitantly, for her hand. “Can I hold you, Rosie?”

“Please.”

He crawled over her and put his back to the wall, an old habit justified by a lifetime of war. The Soldier wrapped an arm around her, then rose to pull his blankets up over them both and sank back. His arm tightened uncomfortably—a child clutching a teddy bear. She stroked the arm gently, noticing the pressure slowly release as he was soothed. When his breathing had slowed, he cleared his throat. “Can I ask questions, Rosie?”

She tensed. “I… I’ll answer some of them.”

“Why did you take the job? It couldn’t have been all that attractive.”

 _Actually_ , she thought, _it was incredibly attractive_. _I was sleeping in a park_. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I kept being fired, and suddenly none of my contacts or friends were available.” She sighed. “Not that I have a lot of friends.” _Lord knows my habits have taken care of that_.

He made a humming noise into the back of her head, relieved to focus on something, anything but his memory and the humiliating flinch he’d never quite been able to hide—an ambush, his memory hidden and then springing out to drag him back into that closet. “Sounds like RED wanted you pretty badly.”

“I can’t imagine I’m all that special.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, lips brushing her hair. “How many women do you suppose there are with the right mix of interests, a criminal record, and experience dealing with men like us?”

She coughed, shifting. “I don’t know. Probably lots.” _Come on, haven’t these people ever hung out in a kitchen? Or any blue-collar job? Plenty of us out there._

“I doubt it, Rosie. Got any family?”

The Cook froze, momentarily—he could feel it, the terror that locked her muscles against him. She recovered quickly and responded. “None that wants to acknowledge me. I was supposed to marry young and play house with some good, Catholic boy—never leave town, never see the world, in that tiny little fishbowl where everyone spies on everyone.”

 _That explains a few things_ , he thought. _She doesn’t have roots anywhere. Perfect for the company, and just like the rest of us_. “One of those little towns?”

“Louisiana is a conservative sort of place, especially in little towns.” _Conservative doesn’t even begin to describe it_ , she thought and shivered. _Visiting home is like time traveling_.

“So you have no attachments.”

“Why… Oh,” she gasped.

“Yep. Probably didn’t hurt.” She looked down, curling into herself slightly, a tiny pawn in an old, bloody game. _Welcome to the team_ , he thought sardonically, and instantly regretted it. She didn’t even have a war to run from, and probably not a goddamn thing to prepare her but a little bit of poverty. “None of us do, Rosie. Engie was married for a little while, but that ended right quick.”

“I’d imagine. Do you even have homes anymore?”

He said nothing, trying not to think about the apartments he’d lived in or anyone else who’d been in them.

“Shit, I promised I wouldn’t ask questions.”

The Soldier sighed. “It’s okay, Rosie. And no. Some of us have distant family, but I don’t think any of us have anyone waiting for us anymore.” His arm tightened again, a quick spasm of crushing pressure—no one waiting, no one to check up on any of them or give a shit if respawn malfunctioned and they finally finished dying. He wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t mind getting it over with. She squirmed, breathless, and he forced himself to let go. _Is it really loneliness any more_ , he thought, _or has it gone beyond that, into some dark, airless place that even hope can’t escape from?_

After a short pause, she muttered, “Solly, can I ask one more question?”

“Dunno, Rosie,” he said, his voice ragged. “What kind of question?”

“Why are you always yelling maggots and about soldiers?”

“My father was a….” _Son of a bitch. Evil motherfucker. Violent, alcoholic wreck._ “Drill sergeant.”

“Oh.”

“Go to sleep, Rosie.”

Exhaustion pulled at her, wrapping dull, heavy fingers around her neck and pulling her down. “How did you know I was tired?”

“We’ve all done this before, Rosie. Sleep.”

As she drifted off, he lay awake, watching the electric light from the tiny window slowly travel the white walls of his room. _Too much_ , he thought. _Too fucking much memory. We’ve been trapped here too long_. He looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms.

 _Enjoy yourself while it lasts, little girl_ , _because when your curiosity wears off, you’ll still be here_. 

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

At breakfast, the Demo was the first to tease the Soldier, doctoring his morning tea with scrumpy—less than his normal amount, the Soldier noticed. _He’s anticipating_ , the Soldier thought. _Cutting down so that when she picks him, he’ll be prepared_. _Not that any of us can really get whiskey dick, since we never get a damn day older and respawn brings us back sober as shit_. “It was a quiet night, laddie,” the Demo said. “Did yeh bore the lassie to sleep?”

“Nope,” said the Soldier. “Our little soldier was ready for war and slept the sleep of the victorious.” _And we’d better make a soldier out of her right quick_ , he added silently.

The Cook smiled briefly at the Demo before loading her fork. “Nope, Solly entertained me just fine.” _Jesus, are they going to tease every morning_ , she thought, irritated, then remembered a few of the kitchens she’d worked in—there was an edge to the teasing, but it had the flavor of habit, and the Demo didn’t seem malicious.

“He can’t have been that entertaining,” the Sniper said. “She made more noise with a mouthful of…”

She dropped her fork with a clatter against the plate and glared over the table. That one was malicious all right, and she was going to have it out with the fucker at some point. The Soldier cut him off by throwing his butter knife with surprising accuracy, bouncing it off the Sniper’s head and sending his tinted glasses into the Scout’s sausage.

“Hey,” the Scout said. “I’m eating, here!”

The Sniper hissed at the Soldier, who went on eating without looking at the enraged Sniper. The Sniper drew his kukuri, coming up slightly out of his chair to clear the knife from its sheath on his hip. The Soldier put down his fork and picked up the trench spade next to him before making eye contact. _Go ahead_ , the Soldier thought. _Focus on me and leave the poor girl alone, you bullying prick_.

“Gentlemen,” said the Spy. “Could you settle this away from my breakfast?” He rustled _Le Monde_ at them, a treat he had sent in with their company supplies. “Can I not have a few seconds of peace before we kill each other again?” The Soldier and Sniper stared at each other, and the Spy waved the newspaper between them, breaking their eye contact. “Breakfast,” he said. “Eat food, hash it out later.”

The Engineer leaned over his plate, knife and fork held up like little statues beside his plate. “Miss, just so we know, you didn’t have to go through respawn last night, did you?”

The Cook smiled into her coffee. _Now that one_ , she thought, _really is fatherly. Nosy, but actually gives a shit_ . Making eye contact, she winked at the Engineer. “A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells.” _He’s Southern. He’ll know what that means_.

The Engineer sat back. _Well_ , he thought wryly, _that’s what I get for prying. Nice to know she’s the discrete type_. He made a face at her. “All right, Miss, I deserved that. I’ll stay out of your business.”

“Well, lassie, whose company would you like this evening?” The Demo raised the bottle to his lips and took a quick swallow. _I’m cutting down_ , he thought, _but that was not enough scrumpy to quite do the job_. The faint, pleasant buzzing of his nerves after the last swallow, however, was exactly what he’d been looking for. He closed his eye briefly and sighed with relief. When he opened it, she was watching him, her eyebrows together. _And what, lass, are you looking for?_

She let a moment pass. _That one_ , she thought, _is an alcoholic. At least he’s a pleasant drunk. Respectful_. “I’d like to spend a little time with the Engineer, actually.”

The Engineer looked up, startled, fork halfway to his open mouth. “I….” He swallowed. “I’d like that.” _Shit,_ _I need to wash my damn sheets_ , he thought. _Maybe she won’t care, but I do. And take a damn shower before she comes to my room. And check the batteries in the vibrator. And fuck, I’m nervous. She doesn’t look nervous at all. She’s not nervous?_ His thoughts were interrupted by the Scout.

“Aww, come on, lady. How long I gotta wait?” The Scout drummed the table with a taped finger, scowling at her under the grimy edge of his baseball cap.

“Soon enough, Scout. Keep your pants on.”

“I’d rather take ‘em off, lady.” The Scout looked at her, a cheerfully vulgar smile creeping across his face as his gaze slid down her face. The irritation was still there, in the tightness around his eyes. “Wanna help me?”

“Little man should keep them on.” The Heavy sipped at his tea. “Unless he wishes to share with table. And Cook might not want to share.” _The boy never had learned any dignity_ , he thought. _The situation was awkward enough without pestering the girl_.

The look the Scout turned on the Heavy was flat and hostile. “Hey, I said I didn’t want an audience, big guy. Back off.”

The Cook found herself considering fucking one of them at the table and was surprised to find that she did not blush—instead, there was a sort of emptiness. She was so far outside everything she knew that she wasn’t sure she could even be surprised. _Off the edge of the world and in free fall_ , she thought. The Spy peeked at her over his newspaper at the Heavy’s words, noticed the lack of blush, and discretely elbowed the fuming, silent Sniper.

The Cook started to wonder if there was something wrong with her. As the room emptied for the day’s battle, she leaned her elbows on the table and stared blankly between them. Why wasn’t this bothering her? Why wasn’t she angry any more, or embarrassed, or even surprised?

She laid her head on a forearm and looked at the cooling sausages, prodding the edges of that emptiness and finding memory. The church came flooding back to her in segments. The pews in front of her. The smell of her grandmother’s perfume. The pools of colored light reflected across the faces of the congregation. The smell of incense and the sound of Latin. The claustrophobic confessional and the gasp of the priest as she confessed. The act itself hadn’t seemed so bad, the feel of her friend’s fingers between her legs and that first, grinding push. And afterward, laying under the tree holding each other’s hands, it hadn’t felt like the mortal sin that made her family try to pressure her into marrying him.

Later, in one of many cities, the feel of another woman’s mouth on her own and the taste of her—the Cook tried to remember when it had stopped being sin and merely been something of which she could never speak. She couldn’t remember what city, or where she had been, just that she had kept wandering and that she had never understood why any of it was wrong, what might make fucking the soul-destroying mess she had been told it would be. Even with her habits, fucking could be joyful, or funny, or gentle. Why was it supposed to be so awful?

And now, this situation: should she be angry that they simply expected her to play along? The malicious teasing the Sniper and Spy had done was what she’d expected, two men simply taking advantage of a shift in power because they could, or perhaps because of habit, or because they had some sort of need to do so. The Soldier wanted to please, clutching at her out of loneliness. The Medic and Heavy—she shied away from that thought. They were none of her business. The Pyro appeared to want to please, as well.

 _No_ , she thought. _Be honest. It pleases you well enough to play along. They expect you to keep playing along because you have been playing along. What does it mean to you?_ “I don’t,” she trailed off. “Does it have to mean anything? Can’t it just be a new experience?”

That sly voice in her mind spoke again— _let’s be really honest. You want them to care about you_. _You actually want them to_ —“No,” she said. “I am not going to go there. That is way too much baggage for this whole situation. This whole thing is just a new experience. I’ll learn something from it and get on with my life.” She looked at the table, covered in dirty dishes. “I’d better get on with something. It’s filthy in here.”

As she cleaned up the breakfast dishes and started the dough for rolls, she thought about her first moments at the base, about wondering what they would think of her, and what they would be like. With a small frown, she wondered when she would be judged, and when they would tire of her. _Because_ , she thought, _let’s be honest again. This isn’t going to last_. Preoccupied, she missed the air shimmering behind her. A breath ghosted across her ear and a low voice said, “I think I’ve figured it out.”

She whipped around, grabbing for one of her knives, but saw nothing.

“You must be saving RED hundreds of thousands a year.”

She lunged at the voice, knife out, and found nothing.

“Missed me.”

She spun, stabbing at the air.

“Missed me, again. And where in the world did they find someone willing to put up with this situation? Ever been a whore before? You’re taking to this like a natural.”

The Cook backed up to the counter, holding the knife in front of her. “Go the fuck away. I’m not a mission goal, or even important.”

“You appear,” he said dryly, “to be doing wonders for morale.”

“Fuck off, Spy.”

The voice kept moving, as if circling. “RED has had to bribe half the women in the nearest town for Sniper alone. This must be incredibly useful for the company.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It suits me, too.”

“I’m sure it does.” He sniffed audibly. “You still smell like sex.”

Her lips curled back from her teeth and she snarled. “I’ve run into men like you before.” _This_ , she thought, _is exactly what I expected. Fucking judgment from some moral shit who thinks I’m obliged to take it_. _Any second now, he’s going to get grabby, which will put him close enough to stab. They always get fucking grabby. They talk themselves into being evil little shits and then they do something about it._

He laughed, the noise echoing as she turned side-to-side, looking for its source. “And did you learn anything?”

“I learned to stab your asses when you get close.” _Come on, asshole, get close enough to touch._

She could hear the amusement in his voice. “If you can find me.”

Her shoulders, already high, rose again. _Come on, either get it over with or get the fuck out_. “Don’t you have something else to do? Something important?”

He sighed quietly. “Tell me, Cook, have you died yet? Are you in the respawn system?”

The Cook blanched, fear crawling up her spine with sharp fingers. _Would he actually do it? What the fuck did I sign onto?_

His voice roughened, deepened. “I would imagine that I could do some damage to morale in a few quick stabs, with one blade or another.”

 _Oh Jesus fuck, he would do it. He would actually kill me_. She crawled up the cabinets behind her, knife wavering in the air. “If you come anywhere near me, I swear to god I will stab you until I can’t move my arm.”

Near her ear, from the empty space on top of the cabinets, he whispered. “I’d hate to challenge your enthusiasm. I heard you being quite… energetic, the last time I scouted this base.”

The Cook threw herself sideways, slicing at the air, and was rewarded by a thin red line that disappeared.

He hissed. “Later, Cook. Thank you for giving me such good ideas.”

“You son of a bitch!” She threw the knife across the counter, but the room was empty again. She crossed to the door, slamming it shut and locking it. “Fuck,” she screamed. “Goddamn motherfucking bastards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Hozier, "Run"


	10. Chapter 10

The Engineer rotated his hard hat between his hands, a nervous habit he’d never quite been able to shake. He’d actually snuck onto base before the ending siren sounded, leaving his turret and dispenser to fend for themselves, to change his sheets and wash. As he’d passed the kitchen, he’d seen the locked door. The dining room had been silent, worrying. A happy woman—his wife had been happy—sang, or made noise, or even talked to herself or her work.

The woman on his bed might have been carved out of wood, or ice. She’d merely followed him to his room and lay down. Quiet through the meal, quiet now, a mouth he thought meant for laughter turned down at the corners, eyes dull. He didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, he wanted to try to help. A surge of frustration tightened his jaw. The thing he’d wanted most, for her to simply hold him, or for just the comfort of touch, appeared to be beyond her. _Forgive me_ , he thought. _I know the answer is no, but I gotta try_. “Look, Miss, I can tell you’re not in the mood this evening. And that’s okay. I don’t want to force you to do anything. Honestly, if you could just hold me, I’d be content with that.”

The Cook closed her eyes, his distant voice coming back into focus and temporarily driving away the echoing chorus of the BLU Spy’s voice, the knowledge that an invisible man could be anywhere, could reach her anywhere. Her muscles ached, tension burning in her thighs and back. He’d been somewhere on the base and heard her. For all she knew, he was in the room right now, waiting for her to be alone. She wanted to feel safe, just for a moment to feel safe and be held and told everything would be all right, another body near hers and that mute, animal warmth that spoke more loudly than words of comfort. She wanted to think about something, anything else. “Come talk to me, Engie.” _Please_ , she thought. _Make it stop. Make me stop thinking about him_.

The Engineer sat down beside her on the bed, carefully maintaining some distance between them. _Poor girl_ , he thought. _Maybe that fucking spy came back again. Or maybe Solly did something really awful_. “We could talk.”

The expression on her face was wretched—he flinched as she raised her arms. “No, come down here and talk to me.”

He looked down, face drawn into long lines. She looked lost, so terribly, terribly sad and frail. The Engineer wanted to cover her up, to smooth the corners of her mouth and make her relax. Her arms stayed up between them, the elbows starting to shake. _Well_ , he thought, _at least I’ll probably get to hold her. She looks like she needs to be a million miles away, with her people around her to keep her safe_.

The bed shook as he took off his boots and crawled to her, stopping an inch away. She could feel the heat radiating from him, raising the hairs on her arms. His expression—pity and sympathy—embarrassed her. _Surely_ , she thought, irritated, _I don’t look that bad. God knows I feel that bad, but I am not pitiful_. _No, I’m just pants-wettingly terrified and I have no idea what I’m going to do_.

“I don’t want your fucking pity, Engie.” _Why can’t you just hold me? Why can’t you just make me forget the rest of the goddamn day? Touch me, for the love of God. Just touch me and make me forget._

He drew back slightly at the acid in her tone. “I ain’t itching to get cut tonight, so I’ll just stay here until you touch me.” _Whatever it is_ , he thought, _it was bad. Real bad. She ain’t usually this tetchy_.

 _If he’s not going to touch me, I’ll touch him. Comfort_ , she thought, grief flooding through her. _Why can’t you just comfort me? Is anything going to comfort me now?_ The mocking voice in her head piped up. _You want comfort like a little child because you’re weak, and they’re all going to think you’re weak._

The Cook sighed, then reached out to stroke her fingers down his arm. He shivered, but held still. “Talk to me, Engie. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Her fingers left a burning trail down his arm that he resolutely tried to ignore, blinking repeatedly with the effort of not closing the distance between them just for the pleasure of touching someone. “I have five PhDs. I don’t know if you knew that.”

 _Christ_ , she thought, _he’s really smart_. _Smarter than me, that’s for sure._ “Holy shit,” she said, tone thawing with curiosity. “How long did that take?”

 _I can deal with this_ , he thought _. At least she’s not angry anymore. We can just talk and maybe she’ll stop looking abandoned_. He shifted, propping his head up on an elbow. “We have all the time in the world, and the company is good at talking universities into accepting a long distance student. Universities will do a lot for a good grant.” _Shit, for what the company sent, they’d have given me the degrees without me doing a damn thing._

The Cook turned on her side to face him, and he was struck by how intimate it was, how much he’d missed simply laying in bed and talking to someone. Her hair was a different shade than his wife’s hair had been, and they didn’t really look alike, but his wife often lay in bed talking, just like this, nights when neither could sleep. Long, slow hours spent talking, hushed, about life, family, the children they’d never had, what they’d plant in the garden—his chest ached for a moment, for that bedroom and his old life. _Anything_ , he thought. _I’d give anything to be back there with her_ , _even to relive one of our fights just so I could be near her again, so I could hear her say my name_.

“What are they in,” the Cook asked, dragging the Engineer back to the present.

“Robotics, computer science, physics, mechanical engineering, and civil engineering. My dissertations are boring stuff, but the company seems to think they’re profitable enough to have talked the universities out of keeping the patents.” He gave the Cook a weak smile and moved forward, closing the space between them. “It keeps me occupied.”

Her skin was warm against his, and he hesitantly reached up to stroke her hair, waiting for her to flinch back or simply to tell him to stop. She leaned into his hand, a flash of sorrow crossing her face as she gently rubbed her cheek against it. _Ah_ , he thought. _Wants comfort. Me too, Missy. Me, too._

“How old are you, anyway,” she murmured, her eyes closed, breath tickling the edge of his flesh hand.

 _There ain’t any good answer to that question_ , he thought. _Might as well be honest_. “We were recruited in the 60s. You do the math.”

Her startled laugh was a shout in the quiet room, shattering the tension. After a shocked moment, he smiled and watched her chest jiggle as she giggled. “Robbing the cradle, grandpa,” she gasped.

 _I missed that, too_. _She really does have a nice laugh_. “You’ll get used to it. First time you get wrinkles, a bullet will fix that right up.”

She stared up at him, a tremor running through her.

 _Me and my big fucking mouth_ , he thought, disgusted. _There went any chance of this turning out happy_. The Engineer’s eyes narrowed. _There’s no way she went through respawn. It’s bad, but she’s still acting like death is permanent. Whatever happened, it ain’t Solly_. The Cook pulled away from his hand and the Engineer sighed. “Let’s talk about something nicer.”

She kept staring at him, the haunted expression back on her face. “No, no, now. It’s okay, darlin’. Really. Let’s talk about something else.” He reached down to her arm, stroking it, mirroring what she’d done. “It’ll be okay, I promise. Wanna hear how I got the other hand? It’s an interesting story.”

When she didn’t respond, he decided to tell her anyway. He’d been using goats to test the teleporters, since goats were easy enough to get and ate just about anything. One of the little bastards had abruptly decided it was having no more of the teleportation, head-butting him. He’d fallen with his arm across the teleporter, accidentally setting it off. The cut had been neat as a ruler, and he’d been able to tourniquet it fast enough to go chasing after the goat, both slipping around in the blood like a Charlie Chaplain skit.

“I got the little bastard, too, while he was skidding around the corner of the counter. The Medic heard the yellin’ and came in just in time to see me pounce on it with one hand, covered in blood. He was swearin’ up a storm in German. That man ain’t nearly as dignified as he lets on. We had goat for dinner, and the Medic and I whipped up another hand in a few days from plans my pa had drawn up.” The Engineer sat up slightly and flexed the hand in the air. “This thing will let me do tiny work, and let me tell you, it’s no small amount of help when I’m hauling equipment around all day.”

She had cracked a smile during his explanation of the chase, the Engineer noted with relief, and seemed to relax. “Things ain’t that bad, Cook, I promise,” he said. “I really just want to hold you for awhile.” The Engineer pulled her gently and she let him, coming to rest with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. She could feel his body loosen where it was pressed to hers.

 _Huh_ , she thought. _He really did miss this. He wasn’t kidding about being lonely_. He smelled very faintly of soap, a sweet, clean smell. _He took a shower for me_. She very gently pressed a single kiss to the arc of his collarbone. He stiffened, then leaned into her, as if asking silently to be touched again. She obliged, pressing her lips to his collarbone again.

He remembered Sunday mornings, his wife’s warm, dreaming body beside his, the feel of her under his hands as she turned and sleepily reached for him, light and dust dancing over her skin. Her smile, warm with the knowledge that she was loved, when he’d brushed her sleep-tangled hair from her face. Leaning in to press kiss after kiss on his wife—tracing the edges of her shoulders, the column of her neck—while she giggled and moaned. His eyelids fluttered open and he looked down at the woman in his arms.

“I missed this,” he said simply.  “I ain’t saying I wouldn’t gleefully show you a few tricks, but I am saying that we ain’t a cuddly bunch around here.”

The Cook cocked her head, a quizzical expression on her face. “Solly said you used to be married.”

He grunted, momentarily irritated. “Fuck. Nobody gossips like a bunch of mercenaries. Yes, I was. She was a wonderful woman, and I ain’t in the mood to discuss it.”

She drew herself back, looking vaguely disappointed, with a hint of out-thrust lower lip. _That’s pretty cute_ , he thought, amusement chasing the irritation away. The combination of petty defiance and petulance always had gotten to him. How the girl knew to pout at him, he had no idea, but it worked better than a charm. Consistently. He entertained the thought of kissing the pout off her face and decided to behave himself. She’d been upset not five minutes ago, and pushing it might bring that frozen grief back. The Engineer shifted, his back starting to ache from laying straight to hold her. “Roll over, little spoon.”

The Cook rolled over with her back to him. “Little spoon,” she complained, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Should start calling you big spoon?” The arm he wrapped around her ended in a chilly metal hand, and she flinched a little when it touched the skin of her arm, then forced herself to lay still. It would heat up. She looked down at it, at the long metal fingers and their small joints. It moved like a flesh hand, shifting and adjusting as she settled into the Engineer, fingers moving independently and delicately.

 _Okay, maybe I’ll push it a little and see what happens,_ he thought. _She walked right into this one, and with a pout like that, maybe this is up her alley_. “No, but when we do this again you can call me daddy.”

The Cook’s mouth hung open for a second. “That’s… just dirty,” she said, her voice deepening on the last word. Surprise chased shock, and a small spike of arousal followed them both, sending a thrill through her as surprise rushed back in. _I didn’t even know I had a thing or he has a thing and I.._. Her thoughts trailed off with a gust of breath, too loose to be a sigh.

 _Surprise, Missy_ , he thought, looking down at the top of her head. _Well, she ain’t running yet, and in for a penny, in for a pound._ “The mind gets older, but the body hovers around 30, kid. Don’t think for a second that grandpa don’t have some bite in him. Wanna see it?”

She tilted her head back at that, looking up, and flushed. The Engineer’s delighted laugh was as filthy as the expression on his face. “And here I was,” he said in a low drawl, “wonderin’ if you could still blush after what Heavy said at breakfast.”

 _Well_ , she thought, her face painfully hot, _at least I know I can still blush. My god, I didn’t think he had it in him. How the hell did I miss something like this?_ “What,” she said, her voice tentative, “do you mean by ‘daddy’?”

“Is that an invitation?” She felt him tense behind her, breath warm on her forehead.

“Maybe.” She slid her ass against him gently, tilting her head back down, and was rewarded with a brief grunt.

“Maybe,” he breathed in her ear, “you should actually say so.” _Say it_ , he urged her silently _. Say you want me, too_.

“All right… daddy… what _did_ you have in mind?” Her tone was flirtatious, even slightly teasing.

 _I have to know_ , he thought. _I have to know so that I don’t do whatever it is and fuck this up_. “Right, little girl, after you tell me what wound you up so tight.”

The Cook sighed and looked down at the rumpled sheets. “The fucking BLU spy keeps sneaking into the base during the battle. I don’t know what he wants, exactly, but he keeps coming into the kitchen and saying things.” Her hands curled into fists. “Okay, I know some of what he wants. He says he wants to injure morale.”

“I see,” the Engineer rumbled. _You sneaky BLU fuck_ , he thought. _Nope, you’re not getting this one_. “How?”

“He asked if I was in the respawn system and I think he suggested rape.”

The Engineer felt the rage like a kick in the chest, making him momentarily breathless. _That son of bitch_ , he thought. _That evil, no good son of a bitch_. _I am going to kill him coming and going, and I’m going to mop up what’s left with fire_. When he could speak again, he said, “that explains your mood.”

At the first prickle of tears, she made a choked sound.

“Oh no,” he said, tightening his arms. “No, now. We’ll figure something out. We’ll do something.”

She bit her lower lip, staring through the walls of the room. _Weak. Weak. Weak to cry_. _You can’t let them see you cry_ , she thought _._ _They’ll never respect you._

The Engineer made low, soothing sounds in the back of his throat, cradling her and rocking gently. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’ll be okay. We’ll fuck him up good.” _I am going to personally kill that son of a bitch with my wrench_. _The sentries aren’t nearly personal enough._

 _Suck it up_ , she thought, _or he’ll never respect you_. _Fucking men_. “I cut him a little, you know.” _I am capable_   _of defending myself_. _I am not helpless_. Her tears trickled out of her nose and she sniffed hard, wiping at her upper lip. _I am not helpless_.

“Now that is something to be proud of. He’s a slippery fucker.” _I am going to bash his head in all day tomorrow_ , _all goddamn day_. He took a sharp breath. “It ain’t pretty, but this war of ours will eventually spill into your kitchen more often. I think we should spend time sparring with you. Solly said he’d take you shooting tomorrow, but for knife work, you’ll need Sniper and Spy, god help you. They are experts, but…”

The Cook said nothing, a creeping, alarming numbness spreading through her chest as her body went limp. _I should have known_ , she thought. _I should have known not to take the job. The offer was too good and I should have known when everyone disappeared from my life that something shitty was going to happen_.

“RED takes the best,” the Engineer said, noting her stillness. “Half of us are assassins. Some of us are ex-military. The rest are just…hell… enthusiastic amateurs. Psychotic amateurs.”

After a short pause, she spoke, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Pyro, right?”

“Yep, I wouldn’t turn my back to that little bastard if he didn’t have someone else to burn.” _Good thing she won’t be on the field_ , he added silently. ‘ _Cause watching that little fucker go to town on someone turns everyone’s stomach._

“And what are you, Engie?” The question was almost accusatory—she wanted him to tell her that he was a bad man, and that she should run. She wanted to run. _And go where, honey_ , she thought. _Can’t find a job right now, and who knows what the company would do if I tried to run_. Had they all tried to run? Were they there because they wanted to be there? The man behind her took a short breath, and she could feel him shake his head, his breath somewhere above her head and the sharp point of his chin on her scalp, stubble catching on her hair. _Is this the honeymoon period_ , she thought. _What comes after this_?

The Engineer bit his lower lip. It was an obvious enough question, but one that kept him awake at night sometimes, idly tinkering with his little side projects as a way to deal with his chronic insomnia and not think about his wife. _Ain’t that the million dollar question_ , he thought. _What the hell am I doin’ here? Of course, the answer is that there’s parts of this job I like. RED had me over a barrel, too, and not for small talk_.

He sighed heavily before responding. “My family is complicated, little girl. We’ve been working for RED for a damn long time. I’ll be the last, but at this rate, I’m all they’ll need.” He paused. She had loosened some, but seemed to be waiting for something. “You okay in there?”

She felt like laughing, honest to god laughter that might be anything from simple amusement to a precursor to sobs. _Oh yeah_ , she thought, _I’m on a locked base in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of professional killers and the invisible man threatened to rape me today. I’m fantastic_. “Would you just hold me for awhile?”

“Yeah,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth in a gush, before he could stop himself, “but if you’re in the mood, I’d be happy to oblige.”

 _Please_ , she thought. _Make me forget_. _Make me think about something else._ The body, warm behind her, fit neatly into the curve of her back, his slight belly filling the curve of her spine and arms a solid weight around her chest under her breasts. The metal hand had warmed from contact with her. _Please, make me feel good_. “You know, _daddy_ ,” she said her voice cracking slightly, “I think I’m game if you are.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, kissing her scalp gently and bending to reach her neck. _There was a spot_ , he thought, _on most women, right about_ —she shivered, and her mouth hung open slightly. He smiled into the side of her neck. _Bingo_. He nuzzled the side of her neck, teasing that spot first with his breath, then brushing it with his lips and sending goose bumps down her body. She moved in a long, slow wave, rolling the curve of her ass against the crotch of his overalls. When he opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick a small, firm stripe against that spot on her neck, she clutched at the hand and arm thrown over her, lacing her fingers through his metal ones.

The Engineer lifted his head and whispered in her ear. “Good girl.”

She responded with a quiet moan, and he tightened his arm around her, trapping her arm and hand against her stomach. “Good, good girl.” He went back to that spot on her neck and sucked it into his mouth, setting his teeth gently against it. When she made a greedy, needy little grunt he bit down into the heavy band of muscle beneath the skin, carefully increasing the pressure as she writhed. _Huh_ , he thought. _Okay, a little pain, too, and some confinement. Wonder how she reacts to being told what to do_.

The Cook’s eyes were closed, the spiky heat of pain warming her, emptying her mind. She could feel herself go limp with the hard pressure of his teeth. His stubble was rough against the tender skin of her neck, pricking, and the wet heat of his mouth soothed her around the teeth that bit down harder and harder until she made a choked sound. _Fuck me_ , she thought. _Oh god, please. Fuck me_.

He released her neck, giving the reddened skin a lingering, tickling kiss and released her hand and arm, rolling away from her. An edge of seriousness and anticipation colored his tone as he spoke. “Off goes the clothes, Missy, and let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

The Cook smiled, relieved—no thinking, just doing. Exactly what she wanted. She crawled off the bed and stood, undressing slowly, staring at the Engineer’s face. _Show me_ , she thought, her shirt sliding off her arms and puddling on the floor by her feet. _Show me what you want_. _Show me you want me_.

He put both hands behind his head, propping it up, and watched the edge of her bra emerging from her shirt, the scalloped edges of lace framing heavy mounds. _Pretty little thing_ , he thought. _Pretty lacy underwear_. He made a mental note to order her more for the pleasure of watching it emerge from the practical, unflattering clothing she wore to work. When she unlatched the bra, her breasts gave a single, heavy bounce and he wanted to bury his head between them, to bite the pale, unmarked skin and pin her to the bed. Her hands moved to the button on her jeans and as she pushed them down, he noted with approval that she didn’t shave, a few reddish hairs escaping the sides of her surprisingly small panties. Flaming red all over, he thought. And, if he was a betting man, pink as hell on lips and nipples.

As it turned out, he was right—tight from the chill in the room, her nipples were candy pink. _God bless redheads_ , he thought. “Very nice.”

He pulled a hand out from behind his head and twirled it. _Come on, show me you can be obedient_.

The look on his face—commanding, stern, but with an edge of mischievous amusement—she realized she was smiling and twirled for him, ending flat-footed and laughing, hair falling around her like a veil from which the points of her nipples peeked. “Should I try to plié, too? Do you have a tutu?”

His brain froze for a moment, picturing her twirling in nothing but a pink tutu, hints of flame-bright pubic hair peeking out from under the edges of pink tulle. “Now that’s a thought.” He pushed the goggles up his forehead and pulled them off with a rubbery snap. “I can’t imagine it’d be that hard to make one, and it’d be damn cute to watch you serve dinner in nothing but a pink tutu.”

 _She wouldn’t make it through dinner_ , he thought. _One of us would have her bent over the table_. _Hell_ , he thought, with a spike of amusement, _more than one of us. Dinner and a show_.

The Cook clutched her arms to her chest and laughed, her belly rolling and breasts jiggling. “What do you do all damn day, Engie, that you come up with this so easily?”

“I’ve spent the last week, since you agreed to let us fuck you, trying not to think about tying you down and paddling your ass pink.” _And fucking you until you can’t stand up_ , he added silently. _Every single time you’ve bent over I’ve thought about dragging you into a closet, or a spare room, or my room, or anywhere with a horizontal surface_.

The Cook blinked and bit her lower lip, thinking about squirming naked on his lap. A wave of tingling warmth swept across her ass at the thought of being bent over his lap, with that hard metal hand holding her down and the warm one spanking her like a naughty child, the rough edge of his voice telling her to be a good girl for daddy. She reached toward her clit for a moment, then clasped her hands together in front of herself.

 _Jesus H. Christ_ , he thought. _I am going to fuck this girl blind and send the Administrator a gift in the morning_. “See, not a bad idea, is it?”

She caught his eyes and deliberately pliéd, spreading her knees and dipping, the wet edges of her cunt opening and giving him a peek of pink lips.

“And now I have to give you a swat for being a tease.” The Engineer pushed off the bed with a grunt. He flexed both hands, then raised them to the hooks on his overalls, rolling them down over his erection with care. She grinned at him and did it again, then turned around and wriggled her ass at him. “Oh, that was very naughty. I’ll have to do something about that right smart, Missy.”

From behind her, she heard his overalls slither to the floor and started to turn.

“Nope. March that cute ass over to the chest of drawers and bend over.” A boot fell over with a quiet thud. Over her shoulder, she stuck out her tongue at him.

“You keep that up and I’ll use the cold hand.”

Her shiver shook the globes of her ass, and he watched it quiver as he crossed the room. “I don’t know where they dug you up, Missy, but I’d clone you if I could to have one around all the time.” The Engineer laid a warm hand against her ass and sighed. “Look at that, look at that.” His knuckles brushed her cheeks, and he ran light, warm fingers down her thighs. “Shiver a little, just like that.” The warm, teasing fingers tickled a line up her thigh, brushing her lips and pulling back when she leaned into them. “Not yet, you don’t. Not until you’ve had your medicine.”

He kicked her ankles apart, and gently pressed her head down flat on the chest of drawers. “You can hold a position for me, little girl, can’t you?”

“Try me, daddy.”

He stepped back, admiring the view. The heavy globes of her ass were parted with her legs, the edges of her lips peeking through the bright red hair. The Engineer could smell her—wet, salty, and sweet. Little droplets of moisture, pearly, dotted her hair. He could just see the pucker of her ass, pink like the rest of her and startling against her pale skin. She shifted slightly, nervous, and he grinned. Anticipation was a fine thing.

The first smack was relatively gentle, almost tentative, and laid a quick warmth across her cheek. He paused, waiting for her to wriggle, and the following lick lifted her off her feet.

She gasped, digging her fingers into the wooden edges on either side of the bureau.

“Can’t let this be predictable, little girl, or you won’t learn a damn thing from it.”

The next three whallops grew progressively harder, and after the last stinging slap, he went back to tickling the throbbing skin with the calloused edges of his fingertips. Her foot slipped and she fell forward as he dipped a finger into her— _good god_ , he thought, _she is wet and silky_ —before slapping both cheeks briskly.

“That, little girl, is for moving. Be still.”

As the skin of her ass heated with each slap, she sagged onto the wood of the chest of drawers and started to make muffled squeals, lips pressed into the wood. The pain burned, sharp and fine, and she could feel her lips sliding together with every jolt. She dragged her lips mindlessly across the wood, looking for more sensation, saliva in little puddles under her cheek. Her eyes prickled, tears and spit smearing across her cheeks.

 _Oh no you don’t_ , the Engineer thought, _I want to hear it. I want them all to hear it_. “Turn your head so I can hear you,” he snapped.

She turned her head and yelped at the next strike. The Engineer laughed. “That’s the noise. Keep it up.”

He stopped just short of bruising, when her ass had gone a deep red and she was sobbing into the wood. The Engineer panted, as much from the desire to be in her as from the exertion of spanking her. Her skin was hot against his hand, and he could see the wet mess across her face. He shivered. “Well, I’d make you open your mouth about now, but I don’t need the help.” The Cook felt him pick up her hips and nudge her shaking knees together slightly. “Don’t fall, little girl. Stay right there.”

She hugged the now warm wood, wet with tears, and waited. The Engineer swore behind her, and a drawer slammed shut. “Where did I put the damn…. There it is.” Another drawer closed and she heard his footsteps come closer.

“Now, you can always tell me to stop, but I find after a good spank, this is helpful.” Something behind her began to buzz and she made an involuntary whimper. He traced the outside of her lips, just brushing them with the vibrator as she squirmed to chase it. “We’ll get there in a minute, greedy girl.” The Engineer gave her a quick spank and she went still, letting him tease her lips until finally settling it on her clit with a grunt.

She came immediately, a rush of sparks behind her eyes and her knees shuddering. The Engineer turned her sideways, putting her knee over his shoulder, and held the vibrator to her now over-sensitive clit. She looked up at him, red-faced and shaking, unable to frame the words to tell him that it very nearly hurt. He reached down and guided himself into her, fighting the muscles that were clamped down against him.  She was soaking wet, her knees twitching, the muscles of her cunt easing apart slowly and tugging at him. “Sensitive are we? You’re milking me near to death in there. Say ‘please, daddy,’ and I’ll take it off for a second.”

She took a few heavy breaths, unable to think. He stayed still, buried deep inside her and twitching gently. _I can’t_ , she thought, panicked. _I can’t say it_.

The smile on his face was ruthless, even somewhat evil, drawing his eyes up at the corners into a pleased smirk. “Say it, little girl, or this is staying on.” He moved ever so slightly, sending a surge of electric sparks up her spine to join the painful tingling of her clit, watching her gasp. _Beg me, little girl_ , he thought. _Beg me and hope I stop_.

The words gushed out of her. “Please, daddy.”

He grunted, cock twitching heavily. “Get used to those words, because I’m going to make you love them. All right, little girl, but only for a little while. When you start to get looser again, it’s going back on.” He pulled the vibrator away and switched it off, putting it on the bureau beside her head. Gripping the leg thrown over his shoulder, he pulled himself back and slammed forward, knocking a choked gasp from her. Her eyes closed and her head tipped down, pillowed on the arm underneath her. With every jolt, he rubbed her, slick and stroking the walls of her cunt. She moaned, the cooler skin of his hip hitting the blushing skin of her ass and sending small, electric shocks through her. Each stoke tightened the muscles of her back, her stomach, the leg against his chest a rigid column and calf wrapped around his shoulder. Her free hand scrabbled against the wood, finally grabbing the edge of the bureau, knuckles white against the thin skin across them.

When the muscles of her cunt finally loosened, he picked the vibrator back up and switched it on next to her ear, making her whole body twitch. Her hips scooted forward to present her clit as he lowered it, the angle making him push harder against the wall inside her. “Lord,” he said softly, reverently, and took a breath. His tone sharpened into command. “I want another one, little girl. And another, and another. If I’m not dripping on the floor, after being in you, I’m going to be very, very angry.”

At the sound of his voice, her thighs flexed, and her orgasm was like a shot, tearing through her with a ragged scream that echoed in the room. Her red face was tilted back and up, scream opening her mouth so that he could see down into the wet cavern of her throat.

“Oh just like that, little girl. Just like that.”

The third orgasm came teasingly, building high and stopping until she wanted to hit something, then building high again. When it broke over her, she choked, muscles locked up so tight she forgot to breathe. He clutched her thigh to him and came in her as she curled into the orgasm. They stayed locked together, swaying, eyes closed for a few seconds.

“Christ, little girl. I ain’t come that hard in a long time.” He spread his knees slightly and looked down at the floor. “Yep, that is, in fact, a tiny puddle. Good girl.”

She muttered something, her eyelids fluttering.

“I think we’d better get you over to the bed. Can you walk?”

She muttered again, still boneless.

“That’s a no, I think. Upsie-daisy.” He pulled himself out of her and scooped her up, laying her on his bed, close to the wall. He lay down behind her, pulling a blanket over them both and killing the overhead light with a remote by the bed. She pulled his arm under her head with surprising strength and nestled down into the warmth of his body with a small, contented sigh.

He pulled his arm slightly and she dug the fingers of both hands into the skin. “Oh hell,” he said. “I’ll take it back later.”

The Engineer leaned forward, pressing his lips to the back of her neck. “I think you’ll recover, but I’m beat. The vibrator is over there, and feel free to help yourself. But now, little girl, I’m going to pass the fuck out.”

She raised a boneless arm and waved aimlessly in the air. Her mind was full of pink fluff, thoughtless with satisfaction. Every muscle in her body was warm and loose, with a heated twinge from her core telling her she was going to be deliciously sore the next day. Her legs twitched occasionally, involuntarily, against his, little shivers that filled him with a sense of accomplishment.

 _A job well done_ , he thought, thoughts already slowing as he began to fall asleep. _Top that, motherfuckers_. “Good night, little girl.”

She answered with a quiet snore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: The Cure, "If Only Tonight We Could Sleep"


	11. Chapter 11

The Cook and Engineer would have stayed in bed all morning if the Soldier hadn’t kicked in the door, lingering in that warm, fuzzy state between wakefulness and sleep. The Engineer had just kissed the back of her head again, nuzzling her hair, when the door boomed, rebounding off the wall and sending pieces of the brass lock skittering across the floor.

“Get up,” the Soldier bellowed, standing in the door holding the holstered gun he’d given the Cook, a heavy bag swinging from his shoulder. “It’s time to learn to kill.”

“Oh for the love of fuck,” the Cook pulled the pillow out from under the Engineer’s head and bent it over her ears. “Go away.”

“Negatory,” the Soldier yelled, loudly enough for her to hear him through the pillow. “There is no time like the present.”

The Engineer groaned and tugged the pillow away from her. “No you don’t, Missy. You made your bed. Go lie in it.” He rolled over, clutching the pillow to his chest and curling around it.

She sat up in bed, clawing the hair from her face, and squinted at the clock. She stared down at the side of the Engineer’s head, lines from the pillow creasing his cheek. “It’s five am!”

“Welcome to our hell, Missy. Now get the hell out of my bedroom and take that loud bastard with you.”

Groaning, the Cook crawled over the Engineer and out of bed to stand, swaying. She rubbed the heels of her hands at her eyes until they could focus, then fumbled on top of the nightstand beside the bed for her glasses.

The Soldier watched her knock the vibrator off feeling around for her glasses. _Ain’t we all competitive_ , he thought, amused. _Well, shouldn’t be surprised that the guy making the machines has one of those_. _Explains the noise, though. We wondered if he was killing her or fucking her last night._

“I bought your gun,” he said to the Cook, watching her sort through the pile of clothes on the floor. When she bent over to grab her pants, he saw the handprints on her ass. He was startled to find that they annoyed him—a surge of jealousy and protective anger made him shift uncomfortably on his feet. _Well shit_ , he thought. _It ain’t like you don’t know we’re all sharing her_. “You should never leave it where anyone can find it.  Or if nothing else, you should lock it up so no one can find it.”

She pulled her shirt on and buttoned it, annoyance and the early morning making her clumsy. “All right, Solly.” _Is he always up this damn early_ , she thought. _Who gets up this early on their day off? He’s even wearing his damn uniform. Who wears their damn uniform on their day off?_ She stepped into her shoes without tying them, wriggling her foot until her heels slid down, and followed the Soldier out of the door. She turned to close it out of habit, but the latch wouldn’t catch. She pulled the door to and let it go, turning to catch up with the Soldier standing a few steps away.

He looked at her from the shadows under his helmet. His voice was quiet. “You okay there, Rosie? You do actually need to learn this.”

The Cook braided her hair, pulling an elastic tie from her pocket and slipping it on. She yanked at the end of her braid, irritated, the pain clearing her head slightly. “I’m fine. It’s just early.”

The Soldier gave her a tiny half-smile, looking at her profile as they walked. “Did you really want the whole gang to see you miss the target?”

“What makes you think I’ll miss,” she said, her voice lilting with amusement. _He’s teasing me_ , she thought. _That’d be cute if it wasn’t five am_.

He snorted. “Ever shot one before?”

“Only a few times.” It wasn’t that hard to shoot a damn gun. Hitting something was harder, but she’d managed to wing a duck on one of her childhood hunting trips, before her mother had decided to keep her home and teach her how to be a lady. _Yeah, that turned out well_ , she thought, looking down at her flannel and scuffed sneakers as they walked through the main hall of the base.

The Soldier chuckled with amused contempt. “You’re about to miss a lot. But don’t worry, I won’t tell them.”

She gave him a mock look of outrage and sniffed dramatically, throwing her head up. “We’ll see.”

They left the base together, the Soldier slowing his usual stride to allow her to walk beside him. A half-mile away from the base, a set of concrete block walls painted faded red and blue loomed out of the darkness. The paint was peeling away, and while shells littered the ground all around the structure, testifying to its use, the whole thing seemed ancient and uncared for. A low, wide shelf ran across both sides. In the distance, a pockmarked wooden fence held a few cans and bottles. A crate of empties sat near the shelves, and a set of buzzing florescent light bulbs did a poor job of lighting the alleys. The whole thing seemed rather shoddy compared to the equipment on the base, and she wondered why something that would be so useful was so poorly maintained. The Soldier pulled the bag off his shoulders and set it on one of the ledges, putting her gun down next to it.

“You share a range?”

The Soldier turned, making a face at her. “The brothers are a bit cheap, sometimes.”

“Brothers?”

He unholstered his gun, checking the slide and safety with an ease that spoke of long practice. “I don’t know what they told you, but this whole private war is an argument between the two brattiest old men you’ve ever not met.”

The Soldier thought about the first time he met them—they’d ended up slap-fighting in their wheelchairs like a pair of children over who was going to speak first. It’d have been funny if they both weren’t rich and able to pay other people to murder each other’s toys. _I’m not usually for beating children,_ the Soldier thought, _but those are two men who needed at least one good ass-kicking, so that they could figure out what the fuck to pay attention to and how to shut up._

“Then what is this even for,” she asked, a note of plaintive desperation in her voice. “Why are you all here?” _What the hell did I step into_ , she thought. _The only thing they told me is that I’d be cooking for a group of men who fought mock battles at an isolated compound. I figured the company would pay for plastic surgery or spa treatments, and I’d be cooking for Civil War re-enactors or a Renaissance Fair or something like that, not a bunch of neurotic killers with technology that might as well be magic._

The Soldier made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat. “Rosie, they recruited me on the heels of WWII. What was I supposed to do, go home?” His voice snapped in the cold air, rage starting to burn high spots of color in his cheeks. “And who would I go home to? My dad died, son of a bitch that he was, a year before the war ended. He beat my ma so bad she left me there when I was ten to his tender mercy. I’d never done a goddamn thing but learn to take a punch, and then to kill. Was I supposed to put my guns up, get married and have another generation of kids? My dad did so goddamn good the first time.”

He stopped, breathing heavily. Her eyes were wide, and he realized that he’d been gesturing with the pistol in his hand, yelling at her, his voice echoing over the desert around them. With an effort, he grabbed control of himself and spoke, quietly. “No, Rosie, _this_ I understand. Take your gun out.”

She blinked at him, then picked up her gun in its holster, edging around him as he lowered the gun to point at the sand. He sighed, guilty. _Get a hold on yourself_ , he thought. _Poor girl doesn’t deserve it_. “Sorry,” he said. “I just…. I’m sorry.”

The Cook nodded curtly, her lips forming a hard line. _All right_ , she thought, _he does have a temper. But he isn’t dangerous exactly, just messed up_. She unhooked the safety strap from her gun and pulled it from the leather, putting the holster back on the counter, then looked at him.

He reached into a pocket and she flinched. _Shit_ , he thought guiltily. _Let’s just get on with this_. “All right, Rosie, I’ve heard gun ranges use ear protection and eye protection and what not now. Not much point in it for us, but you can wear them if you like.” When she held out her hand, he dropped two small polystyrene plugs and a pair of plastic lenses in them. “Put it on the ledge, Rosie, and put them on.”

She put the gun on the counter and worked the plugs into her ears. She hooked the glasses awkwardly over her frames, then pulled them off. “Those are fucking annoying.”

The Soldier shrugged. “They’d bug the fuck out of me. Ready, Rose?”

The Cook picked up the gun, cold and heavy in her hands. _This is a monster_ , she thought, vaguely flattered that he’d given her such a big gun. She looked over at his thick wrists. _Or maybe_ , she thought, _he just picked a gun he’s used before and didn’t think about it_.

The Soldier put his gun on the ledge and reached out gently for her arms. “Hold it in both hands, now. It’s going to kick hard.” When she didn’t pull away from him, he carefully adjusted the position of her arms and hands, pulling the gun away from her body and pulling at her elbows until they bent. “You’re going to want to keep that away from your face when you fire. It’ll spit a hot jacket and burn the hell out of you.”

He stepped back, looking at her arms, and nodded. “Get a comfortable stance, Rosie, so you can take a shot without tensing up. And don’t lock your elbows or your knees.”

The Cook planted both feet and took a deep breath, the weight of the gun pulling at her hands and wrists. She realized, looking at the slight tremor of the sights on the end of the barrel, that she was nervous. The Soldier walked around behind her and leaned forward slightly, pointing over her shoulder. “All right, Rosie, see those cans? Stare them down, and move the gun until you can see them down the barrel, dead on that bump at the end of the barrel.”

The Cook moved her arms, up and then slightly right to center on the cans, her heart already thumping in anticipation. She could hear him shift behind her.

“When you feel good and calm,” he said, his voice said from a point just behind her right ear, “gently pull the trigger. Don’t jerk it, don’t tense, just squeeze real gentle.”

The gun barked in her hand as she flinched and pulled the trigger, thumping and pulling up to the sky. The recoil staggered her back into the Soldier, who caught and righted her with a grunt. The can was untouched. “I believe, Rosie-girl,” he said, laughter making his voice skip, “that you just shot a cloud. The can appears to be safe.”

She didn’t turn around, glaring instead at the can so he wouldn’t see the furious flush on her face. “Goddamn it, Solly.” _He is enjoying this_ , she thought. _Solly gave me a huge fucking gun specifically to watch me fuck up. And maybe to catch me_. _Joke’s on you, asshole. I intend to get very good at this._

“It’s okay, Rose, everyone tenses up at first. Let’s try again, shall we?”

She shifted her stance again, leaning forward slightly on her front knee to catch the recoil. After a moment of glaring at the can and trying to control her breath, she carefully squeezed the trigger, eyes squinted with the effort of keeping them open. Her next shot scattered the sand a few feet from the cans.

The laugh was back in his voice, but he’d circled around to her side and sat, leaning on the edge of the counter. “See, just relax, Rosie. You’ll get it.”

 _I swear to god_ , she thought, _if he makes even a single innuendo about relaxing I’m going to shoot him in the leg. I’ll probably miss, but I’ll fucking well try_.

Behind them, someone spoke. “I see what the Spy was going on about.”

The Soldier pushed off the counter quickly, body tense and fists curled at his sides as if ready to fight. “Get fucked, BLU.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” the man said. The Cook turned to see a tall, stocky man in a blue t shirt put a large bag on the counter at one of the blue bays. His hair was a dark brown, worn in a buzz cut that screamed ex-military. In the poor light, his face seemed sharp: sharp nose, sharply divoted upper lip, widow’s peak, high cheekbones. A heavy jacket over the shirt held a patch on one shoulder, but she couldn’t make out the insignia. He stood still, watching her, waiting for her to finish inspecting him. With a twisting little half-smile, he spoke to her. “You done? Should I turn around and let you finish eyeballing me from all angles?”

Something about the man raised the little hairs on the back of her neck. Solly appeared to be all but ready to strangle the man with his bare hands, and the man himself was too calm, focused on her as if she were the only person present. That little smile—something about it seemed strange. It was his eyes, she realized. His eyes were empty of the smile on his face. They were weighing something about her, deciding something.

“Who’s this?” She took a hand from the gun and laid it against her thigh, hiding it on instinct. The man bothered her, something telling her that his was not a face she wanted to see by surprise. The smile reached his eyes, becoming lazy. He suddenly radiated ease and the same kind of pleased expression she would expect to see beneath a pair of twitching ears in the savannah. Predator, her instincts said. He held out a hand to her, radiating an obscenely wholesome charm that made him seem trustworthy, even soothing. _Jesus_ , she thought, _if I hadn’t seen his expression a second ago, I’d go home with him_ . _Almost any woman would._

“I’m the better soldier,” he said, his tone just right for seduction—warm, buttery, with the slightest edge of intensity. It promised that there was something to be found, something she would want just under the surface if she tried to find it. “I didn’t catch your name.”

The Cook shifted from foot-to-foot. _Fuck_ , she thought, _I’ve seen his other expression and it’s getting hard to remember it_. “The company says no names, mister… Soldier. So make up your own.” She squeezed his fingers briefly with her free hand, and he captured them, giving them a firm squeeze and letting go of them slowly, his fingers trailing on the inside of her palm. The smile he was giving her turned wicked: promising bedrooms and a sure knowledge of how to make a woman happy. Goosebumps swept up her arm. _What is wrong with me_ , she thought. _He’s not even handsome_.

“Was he calling you Rosie when I walked up?” His voice grew soft, intimate. She found herself watching his tongue as it darted out to lick his lips.

The RED soldier pushed between them, breaking their eye contact. “Back off, BLU.”

The BLU soldier stepped to the side and smiled softly at her. “No, I think that’s probably about right. Matches the lovely hair.” He looked his counterpart up and down, his expression changing instantly to a cold sneer. “And it annoys you, doesn’t it, RED?”

“Respawn is still up, BLU,” the RED Soldier growled, “and we could always spend a few minutes reminding you which one of us is the better killer.”

“Always ready for a fight, that’s the RED team. We asked BLU for our own little… cook… but the main office hasn’t sent anything back yet.” The BLU Soldier turned to the Cook, his expression changing again, dizzyingly fast. “We could probably pay you better and I’m damn sure we’d treat you better. The RED Sniper is a real son of a bitch. I’ve heard pretty awful stories.”

The RED soldier leaned into the BLU soldier. “That’s why he kills your Sniper three times out of four.”

The BLU soldier ignored him. “Think about it, Rosie. We aren’t a bad group. Well, most of us. Keep us in mind.”

“Stay on your own side, BLU.” The RED Soldier was shaking with rage.

With a final smile, the BLU Soldier unpacked his bag, expertly loading and chambering a heavy pistol, and proceeded to knock a long row of cans off the fence with a set of sharp bangs.

“Okay, Ros—Cook, back to it. Remember to squeeze gently.”

The RED Soldier lingered at the range with the Cook, keeping his body between hers and the BLU Soldier’s until his counterpart left. When he was sure they were alone, he grabbed the Cook’s arm. “I know that son of a bitch can be charming, but don’t trust him. He’s not what he looks like.”

She frowned at the fingers digging into her and then up at him. “He looks like a predator.” She tugged the arm in his grip. “Let go.”

The RED Soldier let go of her arm with a sigh of relief. Her eyes had started to glaze over while the BLU Soldier had talked, a terrifying look of compliance starting to slide onto it as he’d watched. “Good. You keep thinking that, because he is a predator. Look, Rosie, we’re killers, but we aren’t…. There’s things we won’t do, and he’d do those things.”

She stared out at the cans, the labels bluing in the morning light. “I hear you Solly. He’s just…” She trailed off. How had he been able to stupefy her? What was it about that man that made him so fascinating?

“I know,” the RED Soldier said, softly. “But trust me, he is a bad, bad man.”

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Spy grabbed the French press from a kitchen cabinet, grumbling and slamming the cabinet door when the cuffs on his silky pajama top caught on the handle. “I see we will be serving ourselves this morning.”

“Keep your damn pants on. Solly took her shooting this morning and I guess they ain’t back yet.” The Engineer scratched his stubbled neck, yawning hugely. “He took her out of my room at five am this morning, so either he’s taking a second turn with her or she’s making some kind of progress at shooting cans.”

“Or she can’t hit a damn thing,” the Sniper mumbled, slumped over the dining room table with his head in his hands. He needed coffee, and if she hadn’t thrown out his damn machine, it’d already be made. But no, the little bitch had to toss it in favor of that damn, slow press. And she wasn’t there to make the damn coffee. He moaned softly. Daylight hours before eight were an obscenity—the only time he should be awake this early on his day off should involve hunting. The Spy kept him up most of the night, fucking like a man possessed over some stupid mishap in the previous day’s battle, and habit had roused him without aid from the alarm. It was mornings like this that made him miss working solo. Almost none of his targets had required him to get up before lunch.

“What?” The Engineer blinked blearily at the Sniper.

“Nothing, Engie.”

“It’s Demo or Scout up tonight.” The Engineer stretched, back cracking. “Lord, she’s feisty. Demo’s still sleeping it off, so I’m guessing she’ll end up picking Scout tonight.”

The Medic padded in barefoot, followed by the Heavy, just in time to hear the Engineer’s comment. “The company made a most excellent choice.” His hair stood in messy, fat curls across his forehead and poked, askew, into his ears and the air, where it wasn’t flattened across the back of his skull. His robe, forest green and fuzzy, hung open over his pale chest. He absently scratched at the patch of graying hair on his stomach and glanced over at the kitchen, seeing it empty but for a fuming Spy standing by the loaded press. “I was worried.”

“You and me both, partner,” the Engineer said, “but this is working out all right.”

“Who knew we could share so closely?” The Medic laughed at his own joke, glancing over at the Spy and Sniper quickly, something both men noticed with a shock. The Sniper and Spy looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes, a question burning the air between them. The Sniper shrugged at the Spy, a tiny movement. The Spy’s eyes narrowed in rage—he knew the Sniper wouldn’t have told, which left a single person who could have tattled on them.

“Umph, Doctor, is too early for serious discussion. Will make pancakes.” The Heavy lumbered into the kitchen and started opening cabinets, searching for ingredients.

“Indeed, Mischa.” The Medic walked into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove, pulling out two mugs.

The Medic, Heavy, Sniper and Spy had just started their pancakes when the Soldier bounded in, trailed more slowly by the Cook. They sat as the Engineer came in from the kitchen, clinking a spoon against the sides of his coffee mug.

“Well,” the Engineer said, sitting back down at the table. “How did she do?” He took a fat swallow of coffee and sighed as it slid down his throat.

The Soldier smiled, pride and relief at being back in the base lighting his expression. “A slow start, but she managed to hit the cans with the whole last clip.” He reached for a pancake and rolled it between his fingers into a tube, taking a bite without bothering with syrup or butter.

“What did you have her fire?” The Medic took a small, precisely squared bite of pancake, cutting his food slowly into a checkerboard.

The Soldier swallowed and reached for the jug of milk on the table with his free hand. “I gave her a Beretta loaded with .45 caliber longs, and she fired the hell out of it.”

The Sniper snorted into his mouthful of pancake and swallowed. “You could have started her with something that wouldn’t take her hand off. Look at those little wrists. Were you trying to break her damn arms?” He realized, with a start of surprise, that he was angry—and for what? Everyone knew Solly was a wanker, so it wasn’t a surprise that he’d give the little thing an inappropriately large gun. He looked down at his plate with an irritated grimace, and the Spy looked at him, startled.

The Cook glared at the Sniper, then around the room. _Could I at least_ , she thought, _get a little credit for being able to handle it_. “I’m sitting right here, guys.” She rotated both wrists in front of her. “Still attached. I did fine.”

The Engineer jostled her gently with his elbow and she bent with a grunt. “That’ll stop a fella,” he said. He looked over the table at the Sniper and Spy. “I was thinking we ought to give her a little practice with other weapons, for safety.”

The Spy watched his lover and the woman—his lover’s rage was familiar enough, but the man appeared to actually care, whether about her or just about Solly’s normal fuck-ups. A red, prickling anger made the Spy’s fingers curl hard enough to bruise around the handle of his mug. Something had happened, and how he owed her twice: once for telling the Medic and once for whatever was happening to his lover. The girl was a toy, and it was high time someone reminded her of it. “Hmmm?” The Spy’s eyes slid into focus, catching the Engineer’s last sentence. “What weapons?”

“Well,” said the Engineer, “she seems to like her knives.”

“I’m a cook,” she said. “We _have_ to like our knives.”

“Do you think,” the Spy said slowly, “that our little  _Vipere_ really has the temperament to do that kind of close, wet work?” _This is almost too perfect_ , he thought. _Yes, come learn knives from me, little Vipere._

“She almost stabbed me the first day,” the Sniper said. _Maybe that’s it_ , he thought. _Maybe it’s just because she’s willing to stab_. _Or maybe it’s the snapping, snarling woman we fucked—maybe I just need to track her down and fuck her more often, to get it out of my system_. He looked over at his lover, at his short breath and high, pale cheekbones. _Oh holy dooley_ , he thought. _Sneak is actually jealous. That girl is in for a world of hurt_. A surge of emotion ran through him: spiteful pleasure, satisfaction that his suave lover cared so deeply, and beneath it all, discomfort. _Sneak is going to fuck her up_ _if I don’t do something about this_. _I… don’t know if I want that_. The Sniper looked over at the girl, who appeared to be fuming. _Look at her. She wants to be a part of the team_. _She actually thinks she can be a part of the team_. He blinked, astonishment giving way to concern. _She cares_.

“She cut our little friend yesterday during his daily visit.” The Engineer looked over at the Spy. “The BLU Spy has been hanging out here during the day, buzzing the Cook and suggesting all sorts of things. We can’t really take her with us or spare the Pyro to watch her.” He tapped the table with his metal forefinger. “I could set up a turret in there with her, but the turrets are sensitive enough to make getting the wrong bottle out of the fridge lethal.” The Engineer looked over at the Cook, busy loading her plate. You don’t have anything blue in that fridge, do you?”

She looked at him, disbelief opening her mouth slightly before responding. “No, let’s not set a turret up in my damn kitchen,” she said. “Pass the press, Spy.”

The Spy made an expression with too much tooth in it to be a smile. “All right, all right, I can see I’ll be spending my free days playing nasty little games with our _Vipere_.” The Spy passed the empty press over the table to the Cook. “I can’t do it all my own. I have other responsibilities.”

“Fine, I’ll help,” said the Sniper. _If for no other reason_ , he thought, _than to keep Sneak from skinning her_. “But I’m going to train her like one of us, because there’s no point in training her to mince about, waving her blade like a ponce.” _And maybe_ , he added silently, _she’ll turn out to be able to be one of us_.

The Cook looked over at him, picking up her fork with a stabbing hold, and the Sniper gave her a genuine smile that startled them both. “We’ll get to it, Birdie, but not at breakfast.”

When she walked to the kitchen to rinse and refill the French press, the Scout stumbled in. “Food. Coffee. Coffee!”

“Christ, Scout,” she yelled from the kitchen. “Wait your damn turn.”

“I’ve been waiting,” he yelled back, collapsing into an empty chair with a grunt. “I ain’t all that patient.”

“No kidding,” murmured the Engineer into his coffee cup. The brash and vocal Scout had not shut up over the last week about what he planned to do, and what he thought would happen. _Boy, is that kid going to be in for a shock_ , the Engineer thought. _If he ain’t probably the most vanilla guy on the team, I’ll eat my goddamn hard hat_.

“Hey, old man,” the Scout said, irritation making his accent thicker. “I heard that.”

“Kid,” the Engineer said, staring over at the Scout, “ain’t that many years between us.”

“Yeah,” the Scout said, hooking an arm over the back of the chair. “Well, you act like an old man.”

“And you ain’t never going to grow up, will ya?”

“ _Kinder_!” The Medic slammed his cup down with a splash and a clank. “Just one breakfast. One!”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, ya damn Kraut. Come on, lady, I need the caffeine before I go running.” The Cook walked back into the kitchen bearing two mugs, and slid his in front of him as she sat, splashing his lap with coffee. “Ow,” the Scout howled. “Christ, lady, that was hot.”

The Engineer stifled a snicker into his own coffee. Because he had to stay close to his machines, he’d been an unwilling audience for a week of loud, obnoxious, and ultimately wrong speculation on the Cook, who had an apparent dislike for being told what to do by the boy.

“Yes, yes it was.” She sipped her coffee, sighing with pleasure into the mug. _Finally._

“I think I’m actually kinda damaged, here,” the Scout said, peeling the fabric of his pants away from his skin with a grimace. “Medic!”

“ _Kinder_ ,” the Medic said, his voice edging into a growl, “if I have to get up before I have finished my tea, it will not be to get the gun. I will get my knives, and we will show you actual damage.”

The Scout sighed and leaned back, holding the soaked cotton away from his skin, and picked up the mug with his free hand. “At least I got coffee. I ain’t gonna fight you, Doc, but this shit hurts.”

“Come by the surgery later.” The Medic turned back to the small squares of pancake.

“Hey, Cook-lady,” the Scout said, looking over at her with an angry frown. “That was low.”

“I don’t,” she said, her tone steely, “like being yelled at in my own kitchen.”

“And I don’t like having to wait forever,” the Scout countered.

“You ain’t makin’ any friends,” the Engineer said. “Play nice with the lady.”

“Fine,” the Scout said, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, waiting for his annoyance to die down. After taking a deep breath, he tilted it down. “If the Doc don’t fix me, I’m out for tonight. I’ve got some delicate areas and they ain’t gonna be ready for company later.”

“All right,” she said. “I suppose I’d better go hunt down Demo later and give him the news.”

“Missy,” the Engineer said, his voice faltering, “you might want to be a little nice to the Demo. He’s probably drunk as hell, and he gets a little emotional when he drinks. He ain’t gonna play with explosives or nothing, but he may be… weepy.” He stretched again. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me up if something stops working.”

She blinked. “Is there anything you people don’t know about each other?”

“Honestly, Missy, there ain’t much. We’ve been living on top of each other for this many years, and the base ain’t exactly arranged to be soundproof.”

“No, it ain’t, lady,” the Scout said. “It’s been real entertaining around here over the last couple of weeks.”

The Cook shrugged, too tired to respond. 

“I gotta say, I’m dying of curiosity.” The Scout jiggled his leg and winced. “I’ll meet you in the surgery, Doc,” he said, and limped away from the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Marilyn Manson, "Evidence"


	12. Chapter 12

The Cook waited all day for the Demo, but he never came out of his room. By the time dinner was ready to serve, she started to feel a little hurt. If he wasn’t interested, the least he could have done is say something to her, so she’d know one way or the other whether or not to bother him. Being avoided, or ignored, whichever he was up to, was a bit humiliating. The quiet snicker of the Scout when he came in for dinner hadn’t helped matters—the Medic had fixed him up, and the Scout noted the Demo’s absence with mildly spiteful amusement. She put dinner on the table and left the other mercenaries to it, and wandered through the halls, looking for the class symbol on his door. When she reached his room, she realized she should have been able to tell from the smell: sweet, with a bitter tang that said something was on the verge of rot. _Old lees_ , she thought, _in something that should have been washed out_. She hammered on his door with the side of her fist, irritation making her hit it hard enough to shake it in the frame.

“What do yeh want,” he bellowed. “Can’t yeh see I’m not in the mood fer visitors?”

“Demo, it’s me.”

“You?” There was a pregnant pause, then a loud sigh. “Go away, lass. I’m not fit for company.”

“Could I at least take a bottle of scrumpy with me? It’s been a complex kind of week and I need a damn drink.” _What I need_ , she corrected herself, _is money and several thousand miles between me and this base, but that’s not happening_. _I have to buy booze the next time I order supplies. Lots and lots and_ —her thoughts were interrupted. The latch rattled in the door, which banged open. The Demo leaned against the doorway, weaving. He wore a stained, ragged thermal over a faded kilt and a pair of thick woolen socks. His hair was a tangled mass which swallowed the strap of his eye patch. His breath was fetid, and he smelled of sweat and the rank musk of a male body. One hand was wrapped around the neck of a bottle, and the other helped steady him against the door frame. He also looked at her like he wanted her to burst into flame on the spot.

“Oh,” he growled. “Going to get drunk tonight, are yeh?”

She realized she had stepped back, startled by his anger, and stepped forward, snapping at him. “You know, I think I will. What’s it been, eight or nine days? My whole fucking life has changed in eight days, and I think I need to drink my feelings about it.” Her tone rose to a scream at the last few words, echoing in the hall.

After a short pause, in which he stared at her blankly, he lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. Swallowing, he laughed against the neck of the bottle. “Oh aye, that I will join yeh for. Come in.” He stepped back, swaying slightly, and gestured. She brushed past him, walking into the room. A homemade still took up half the room, leaving a messy bed and a desk whose surface held a complex array of glass ware and a Bunsen burner, as well as a stained, partially burnt chemistry textbook. The room’s lone chair was buried under an array of pipes, holding up the bottle tree that supported them. A neat stack of crates filled a corner, and the Demo wove to it and grabbed a bottle. “There yeh are, lass. Don’t hurt yerself.”

She wrapped her shirt around the cap and twisted, pulling it off. The liquor was raw, stinging her eyes and scratching at her throat. She took a deep breath and coughed, explosively. “What is this,” she croaked, “three hours old?”

“Three months,” he said, a smile starting to warm his features. “I ran out of reserve.”

“Oh my god,” she said, her voice crackling. “It’s like drinking gasoline.”

At that, he laughed. “Aye, but it’ll get the job done, lassie.”

They stood awkwardly, staring at each other, before he pulled the blanket from his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. _Well_ , he thought, _she’s liable to be better company than the rest of them_. “Come on, lassie, get yer coat and I’ll show yeh my favorite place to get blind pissed.”

He grabbed another bottle and shooed her out of the room, shutting the door, and leaned against the wall. She ran to her room and grabbed a coat and hat, meeting him by his room and letting him lead. As he staggered down the hall and up a set of stairs, she watched his thighs and calves under the edge of his kilt, the muscle bunching up smoothly under his skin. The head of the stairs emerged on the roof of the base, where she found a tattered couch covered in a tarp. The Demo tucked the bottles under the tarp and pulled it off the couch before sitting heavily beside the bottles, tucking the blanket in around himself. She sat down on the other end of the couch, woolen hat pulled low over her eyes, and looked over his shoulder into the glittering river of the Milky Way.

“I can’t remember ever seeing the stars so clear.” Her voice was soft, hushed. For miles around the base, she could see the sand and rock, stretching, low scrub and trees breaking the silken expanse. She turned her eyes up to the sky again, to the stars like white hot embers on the black bowl of the night. The sky was burning, alive with colors and light in a way she’d never seen. The town of her youth had been the site of several refineries, whose waste torches burned day and night, hiding the stars and turning the night sky brown. And cities—cities swallowed up the delicate glory of the stars in a blaze of neon. This was beautiful, a cold, complex beauty that made her feel every inch of her small, mortal life.

The Demo watched her head tilt up, looking at the pale expanse of her neck down to the hollow of her throat, framed by the coat. He’d been able to hear her fucking his teammates—everyone had—and he’d found himself wondering again and again what she’d be like. Most of them told stories, and no matter what they thought he was doing, he’d listened. He knew what the Sniper and Spy got up to, a little about what the Medic liked, and even less about what the Engineer liked, but the noises echoing through the halls told him they were a bit forceful as a group. He’d actually had to sleep with his pillow on his head a few times, the ragged edge of her screams making him wonder if he should knock on the door and check to see if she was being murdered.

Not, as he might have explained if anyone had asked, his cup of tea. _They never did ask_ , he thought darkly. No, they just laughed at the drunken Demo and he let them, for the most part, because it was easier to be a joke than the focus of all their weird expectations about him. And sometimes, he acted drunker than he was because they spilled their secrets to him, supposing he wouldn’t remember them in the morning.

He remembered.

If the girl liked things a bit rough, it left him right out. Would she want something or someone that wasn’t about pain? Did he really feel like trying her out? Did he really feel like sharing her with the rest of them? _Right_ , he scolded himself, _that’s a bad idea_ _all round_. _Don’t judge the lass, don’t ask any questions yeh don’t want the answers ta_. _And yeh don’t want ta know if she can enjoy anything yeh would. Besides_ , he thought, and snorted aloud, _yeh never did learn ta part yer feelings from yer fucking_.

He cleared his throat before answering her, looking away from the pale cords of her neck and scanning the desert beneath them. “It’s the desert air, lassie. We’re near half a kilometer up and there’s not a damn light source for miles to drown out the stars.”

She took another swig of the bottle and shivered, eyes on the stars above them, her breath a delicate cloud in the freezing air. He made a wry little face. _Well_ , he thought, _I’ll take care of yeh. It’s not like any of the rest of them’ll care_. _Too busy thinking with their dicks, and the wee little thing putting up with it._ After a pause, he added silently. _Well, ta be honest, she sounded like she enjoyed some of it_.

“I’ll drag yeh in before we freeze, lass. What’s bugging yeh? I’ll trade yours for mine.”

She laughed, bitterly. If the man wanted to hear it, she’d be happy enough to share. At least someone cared enough to ask, even if it might be the liquor talking. “It’s like another damn planet, here, isn’t it? I keep waiting for someone to judge me, or to kick me out, or make me leave, or just to treat me like there’s something wrong with me for liking what I do. But all I get is sex and taught to go to war. Wish I knew if any of ‘em respected me at all after all this.”

The bottle hovered over his lips. _Well_ , he thought, _that settles that question and a few others. The wee little thing does care, at least sommat, and does like ta be treated a bit rough_ . _Afraid of being rejected or just treated badly outside the bedroom?_ _But doesn’t mind being treated badly inside the bedroom? Odd combination_. He realized his eyebrows were together, and that the silence had stretched on for some time. The expression on her face was edging over into embarrassed hurt, her lips turning down and eyebrows coming together as she huddled into her coat.

The Demo sighed. “That’s what we have, lass. Sex, and war, and this little kingdom. That’s all we’ve got to give yeh.” A brief flash of pain lanced through him. _We cannae give yeh much else_ , he thought. _I have ta remember ta stay away and not ta give yeh anything else_. He took a long pull from his bottle. “And now, you’re one of us, or yeh will be when respawn picks yeh up the first time.” He shifted on the couch, automatically tucking the edges of his kilt around his thighs, and focused on the distant glimmer of lights on the shooting range.

“I don’t even know…” She swallowed. “Fuck, that’s raw! I don’t even know how to understand that.” She gestured with the bottle. “Respawn, and this weird little war, and the way you all seem to just be okay with me wandering from room to room, fucking you.”

 _Dear sweet laird_ , he thought. _That’s a mouthful_. _And not all of us are okay with it, we’re just not tellin’ yeh_. “I don’t think there is a way,” he said, quietly. “Yeh just… get used to it.” _That’s how I dealt with the damn respawn_ , he added silently. _Probably how I’ll deal with the whole roving sex thing. That and stayin’ away_. _And wankin’. Loads of wankin’._

The lights twinkled above her head as she laid back against the ragged cushions of the couch, body loose and warm. She could feel the liquor running through her like bubbles—tingling, tickling—and she shivered again. He could see the ribbons of her hair laying in long strips across the tattered tartan of the couch, and wanted to run his fingers through them. The edge of her mouth that he could see was turned down, and her stare appeared to be blank.

He continued, trying to reassure her. “I promise yeh, lass, yeh do get used to respawn and the not dying. There’s bugger all else ta do other than lie ta girls in the next town and try not to visit them too often.” _And I had to stop doing that_ , he added quietly, _because I just cannae forget to care_.

She rolled her head to look at him, eyes over-bright. “Will you still be visiting them?”

 _It’s hit her a bit fast_ , _the little thing_ , he thought, followed by curiosity. “I might. You can, too, as long as yeh don’t get too friendly with them.” He looked over at her, suddenly reminded of a few female mercenaries of his acquaintance. Something in the way she carried herself suggested a certain amount of flexibility. “Yeh seem a little fey to me, no offense meant.”

She laughed softly into the night, a flush coloring her face. _He’s a perceptive man for a drunk_ , she thought. _Or maybe that’s why he drinks_. “A bit, yeah. I’ve never minded strolling gay street.” The Cook turned her head toward him again. “Do you have any family left?”

The Demo stiffened, fingers tearing through the decaying fabric of the couch. The company had kept him occupied through the death of his last kin, his beloved mother, and he was never going to forgive them for it. “Nah,” he said, working to seem nonchalant. “Just a heap o’ stone falling ta bits in Scotland.”

“I didn’t think there were any…”

He wilted as he realized where the sentence was going and finished it for her, anger making his tone cut through the air. “Black Scots? I don’t know, lassie, are there any Black Americans? Any Chinese Americans? Anybody out there but yer kind?” _Cannae have a single conversation about meself without this_ , he thought, a mix of despair and suffocating rage making him want to simply get up and walk away. _Cannae possibly have a single moment when I’m nae explainin’ this to someone_.

“You’re right,” she said, and burped, bottle slumping in her hand. “It was a… stupid question.”

He took a calming breath and straightened up on the couch, re-tucking the blanket around his shoulders. _Well_ , he thought, _at least she’ll admit it was stupid_. “Slow down, lass, we’ve got the night.”

She let the bottle lean against her thigh. “What’s eating you,” she slurred.

 _Mah sweet laird_ , he thought, _she’s actually polite enough ta ask, even with a head fulla meh scrumpy_. He looked over at her, surprise startling the truth from him. “Do yeh actually like their games?”

“What games?” Her unfocused gaze wandered around his body, making little notes and lingering at the open neck of his thermal and on his bare knees.

“Lass, nearly every man here’s gone a bit wild over our years, though the Medic and Sniper probably started bent. I cannot imagine they don’t play games, and I’ve heard how much RED paid to bribe some of the women Snipes went home with.” The Demo sighed. “He hasn’t pissed on yeh yet, has he?”

She blinked at him, owlish behind her glasses. “He what?”

“I hate to ruin the surprise.”

“No you don’t,” she said, gesturing in the air. “You… you…” _You’re pretty_ , she thought. _Pretty, pretty, pretty. And really nice. I like you, Mister Demo-guy._ She wanted to get close to him, to touch him and curl up and let the very nice, pretty man hold her.

“I what, lassie?” _Oh laird, please let’s not talk about the fact that I’m Black again tonight_ , he thought. _I don’t wanna hear whatever shite yeh’ve learned about it_.

 _Don’t tell the nice man he’s nice_ , she thought _. And pretty. He’s really very pretty_. “You’re very nice,” she said, the words, tumbling out of her lips. After a moment, she realized she’d said the word nice. _Fuck_ , she thought. _Men don’t like the word nice_.

The Demo jumped slightly, startled. _Well_ , he thought, suppressing a surge of disappointment, _there are worse things than being told you’re nice_. “Not really, lass, but I’m not that kind o’ monster.”

“It’s not that bad, you know. Sometimes the games are fun.” The Cook hiccupped, her whole body spasming against the couch. “Fun, fun, fun,” she sang, head tossing back and forth. “Sometimes I wish they were more—” She stopped herself. _No telling the nice man_ , she thought, brain filled with slowly trickling words. “I’m not admitting nothing,” she slurred. “Nothing.”

The cold had slowly sobered him up over the conversation, letting him catch the omission. _More what_ , he wondered. “Not my cup o’ scrumpy,” he said and plucked the bottle from her boneless fingers. “I think I’ll be holding that for yeh, lassie.”

The Cook shivered so hard she shook the couch. “I think I’m… I think… cold.”

“Scoot over here.” The Demo opened his blanket with a sigh and she crawled over, falling into him. He tucked the blanket around them both and stared out into the desert. _Great_ , he thought sarcastically, _I volunteered to take care of her for the night and now I’m a heat source_.

She clumsily opened the collar of his thermal and curled her fingers in his chest hair, sending a thrill through him that had nothing to do with the cold. “Your hair is really soft.”

 _Nae_ , he thought. _I am nae going to respond to that_. The tension gathering under his kilt, however, had other ideas. _No, this is nae the time nor the place, and this is definitely nae the woman_ , he told himself. _Yeh’re a grown man and not led about by the bollocks_. “What did yeh expect,” he said, voice thick with tension.

 _And we’re definitely not having the hair conversation_ , he thought.

“I dunno.” Her fingers went back to stroking, weaving through the curls gently with an occasional scratch from her nails, the lightness of which made it tickle. She settled in closer, taking a deep whiff of him. Under the sweat and fetid musk, he had a faintly sweet smell. She pressed her nose to his neck, too drunk to notice him stiffen, chasing that sweet smell. The Demo shifted, pulling back. _Nae_ , he thought, _we’re nae doin’ this. The little thing is drunk and yeh’re just going to end up having to deal with the fact that she’s nae going to care about yeh._  

The Demo took another pull from his bottle. “It’s damn hard to stay drunk up here, lassie. Too cold.”

Her teeth chattered in response.

“All right, come on up now.” He pulled her to her feet and tugged the tarp over a full bottle of scrumpy and the couch. “Down tha stairs.”

The Demo herded her to her room, half-carrying her as she tried to put one foot in front of the other, and put her down gently on the bed. He rolled her from side to side, stripping her jacket off and knelt on the floor to pull at her shoes. “Gerrofff,” she murmured. “I c’n git.”

“Suit yerself, lass.” The Demo turned to leave, resolving to lock the door behind him with a mixture of disappointment and relief. She threw a shoe at the wall, missing him by inches, then slowly shimmied out of her pants as he turned around.

“I wanna cuddle,” she said, brow furrowed with concentration at the effort of speaking.

He made a complicated noise in the back of his throat. _Oh fer the love of all the saints_ , he thought. _Right, well, I’ll just lay down and think about the fact that she’s nae going to care, and about sharing her with the entire base_. _That’ll keep meh from doing anything about it_. He lay down beside her, letting her scoot backwards until she was pressed against him. She wriggled her ass a bit longer than he thought was necessary, especially considering the fact that he was starting to ache.

“Demo,” she said, her voice starting to clear.

“What, lassie?”

“You’re poking me.”

“We’ll get to that in the morning, lassie.” _Nae we won’t_ , he added silently. _I’ll just pretend to fall asleep and then I’ll do the both of us a favor and go away._

He waited until she started snoring and slowly untangled himself. Slipping out to the kitchen, he filled two glasses and drank the first down, then refilled it. “I’ll just drop one off,” he whispered, and snuck into her room. At the faint click of the glass on the nightstand, she sat up and grabbed the edge of his kilt with a surprisingly strong grip. He put the second glass down to try and wrestle it back, but she gave him a drunken glare.

“Cuddle,” she said emphatically, her lip starting to poke out with bleary disappointment.

The Demo sighed. _Dear laird_ , he prayed silently to a god he knew didn’t exist, _I’m trying to be decent here_. No answer was forthcoming, as he expected. “All right, lass, let me shut the door.”

She eyeballed him suspiciously until he shut the door, kicked off his shoes and socks, and climbed into bed with her, then grabbed his arm and tugged until he was cuddling her. Despite his best efforts, he fell asleep like that.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

In the morning she woke before her alarm went off. She found the Demo still sleeping, and two full glasses of water on the nightstand beside her glasses. Her mouth tasted like sandy roadkill—dry and utterly foul. She polished off the first glass in a single chug and put her hands on the second glass before he spoke, voice cracking with sleep. “Get yer own, lassie.”

“I feel awful.” Had they done anything last night? She didn’t remember anything but a discussion and being put to bed. Somewhere, vaguely, she remembered arguing with him about something and winning. She wasn’t overly wet, nor sore—a first since she’d unpacked in the place. _Holy shit_ , she thought. _He’s genuinely a nice person. Or maybe he’s just not interested. But either way_ —“thank you,” she said, then winced. “Ugh. My head feels like it’s full of stabby little elves.”

An edge of irritation made his voice harsh. “Yeh drank a bit last night. Yeh’re a bit demanding when yeh drink.” She blushed, and he immediately felt guilty. “Sorry, lass. I just didn’t mean ta spend the night.”

 _Oh,_ she thought, with a stab of embarrassment. _Okay, he’s not interested_ . A memory surfaced—her fingers locked around the edge of his kilt and a belligerent stare. _And I made him stay_. “I’m... umm… I’m sorry about last night.”

“Oh are yeh,” he said, struggling with his temper despite the guilt. “Are yeh sorry fer the whole night?” He was aching, his own headache battering at his temples and tense in a way that needed some quiet time in the shower. He wasn’t sure he’d ever gone soft, and she shifted a lot in her sleep, constantly rubbing herself against him, mumbles and moans waking him to the feeling of grinding himself against her. No matter how many times he turned away, he’d woke pressed against her ass, well on his way to something he knew he’d regret.

She looked over at him, at the hard line of his mouth. _Did I do something I don’t remember_ , she thought. “Yes, I am. Whatever it is, it was obviously bad.”

He growled, then pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. _And the lass dinna even know. I’m nae telling her_ , he thought. _If she looks down at the blanket, she’ll figure it out_.

“Look,” she said, blushing up to her hairline. “I’m sorry. I think I was rude, and I treated you badly. I know you’re not interested and I’m sorry I made you stay last night.”

"Nae interes—” He cut himself off with a violent, convulsive move to sit up, sending the hammering in his skull into overdrive. “Are yeh blind?” 

She looked down finally seeing the lump in the blanket, then looked up again quickly, mouth hanging open. “I… oh,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t…” she trailed off. “I mean, it’s not like we have to do anything but I’m sorry I...”

“Lass,” he ground out, “I don’t take advantage of tha drunk nor do I take advantage of those that dinna care for me or want me.” He threw the blanket off and slowly, carefully started to crawl over her. “I’m nae that kind of monster.”

She reached out and snagged his thermal. “Please,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He surprised them both when he closed the distance between them and kissed her, hard. “Don’t,” he said, breath hot and acrid against her face, “assume I don’t have any interest. Assume I don’t want ta be a cock in a pile of cocks.”

Her eyelids fluttered, his words cutting her. “I don’t think of it like that,” she said, softly.

“Aye,” he said, anger making his voice boom against the concrete walls. “Well how do yeh think of it?” He watched her mouth work silently for a moment. “Nae, yeh don’t have an answer, do yeh? Or are yeh just trying to be polite?”

She glared at him. “What do you see when you look at me, Demo? What goes through your head? Do you think I’m empty, that I don’t have any feelings?”

“How can yeh,” he spat. “Yeh don’t know us. Yeh don’t talk to us. Yeh don’t share anything with us. Yeh just let them as wants ta use yeh like a doll.”

She shocked herself when she slapped him, snapping his head back. “Is that what you think is happening when someone comes to my room,” she growled. “You think I’m just laying back passively, thinking about nothing, that this means nothing to me? You are a fucking fool.”

He grabbed her hand, digging his fingers into it, and hissed at her, instinctual rage at being slapped roaring between his ears. They stayed locked there for a moment, both breathing heavily, before he was able to see the tears gathering in her eyes. His memory prodded him—she feared rejection, wanted respect. The Demo closed his eye and let go of his hand. If she wanted to slap him again, he was willing to take it. He was sore, aching, hung-over and nearly unbearably horny, and he was in the bed of a woman who found pain erotic. Whole sections of his body were voting for tackling her to the bed and doing things he knew he shouldn’t, things he’d be unable to live with himself if he did. No one would blame him and she might even let him, but the next day… at some point, she’d look back and hate him for it. She would hate him for hearing her confess to her fears and using them against her.

 _And what_ , he added silently, _do you expect? Yeh want to be loved, always have, when yeh fuck someone_. _Yeh just about told the lass yeh don’t think she’s anything more than a doll. She won’t love yeh after this._

He took a breath and opened his eye to look at her.

Desire, misery, hopelessness, and a terrible loneliness fought on her face, an expression he knew he’d have many sleepless nights remembering. The Demo shuddered and pushed himself off the bed. “Sometimes lass,” he said very quietly, “the best thing we can do is retreat. I’m sorry. I should nae have said those things. Who am I ta judge yeh for what yeh like?”

He backed up, grabbing his boots and socks, and left the bedroom just in time to hear her start sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: NIN, "Every Day is Exactly the Same"


	13. Chapter 13

The Cook realized that she’d been staring at the heaving surface of the sauce for twenty minutes, watching fat bubbles pop and spatter orange across the white stove top. She’d showered, served a breakfast she couldn’t remember, had conversations she couldn’t remember, cleaned the kitchen and dining room, picked up her room, and moved on to making dinner, all without particularly thinking about any part of it. The Demo had been absent from breakfast, and the rest of the mercenaries had eyed her without asking about the fight they’d no doubt heard. She nursed a glass of water and poked the sauce, then turned it off. A glance at the clock told her it was time to check the pork loin and she did, falling into the habits of a lifetime of cooking with relief to be doing something with herself.

The Demo’s words were lurking just on the edges of consciousness, and with them a spate of memories. People she’d genuinely liked, had wanted to date and love shying away. How could she care, they’d reasoned, when they’d bothered to tell her why. How could she care for them when she seemed to be unhappy with just them and no one else? It had never been sufficient to tell them she loved them, as hard as the words could be to say—they had simply assumed she was after novelty, that she’d get bored after a few months and move on, breaking their heart.

So they broke hers first, for all the best reasons.

“People do get to choose,” she told herself quietly. “They do get to choose whether they want to risk their hearts on someone. And most people seem to be happy enough settling down with one person. They can’t love you if they don’t know you, if they can’t freely choose to love you as you are.”

 _Whatever you are_.

A sound just this side of a gag echoed in the kitchen and her face twisted, decades of misery bearing down on her. _Why aren’t I_ , she thought. _What’s wrong with me that I can’t do what everyone else seems to be able to do?_

Her hands moved automatically to snapping the tough ends off green beans, eyes unseeing. _Why does pain have to turn me on? Why do I seek it out? Is it really just a sickness?_

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I don’t understand why I can’t just be normal.” She bent for a moment, resting her forehead against her wrists on the counter. This little line of thought, these same questions, had been echoing through her for years without answer. _And there is no answer_ , she thought. _Because whatever it is that’s wrong with me, however it is that I’m failing to be what I should be, it’s as much a part of me as my bones. I know I’m supposed to accept it. I’m supposed to just accept that I’m not whatever it is I’m supposed to be and be okay with myself._

“How am I going to do that,” she snapped. “How the fuck am I supposed to accept myself?”

She put the green beans on to poach in silence, then rolled and cut biscuits, concentrating on her arms moving and the tasks ahead of her. She put the biscuits in the oven and washed her hands, then leaned back against the counter, drying her hands in a towel. _There’s supposed to be comfort in accepting yourself_ , she thought. _It’s supposed to be all that you need. Self acceptance._

“It’s not much comfort,” she said, pulling the pork loin from the oven and set it to cool on the stove top. “But I’ve never had a comforting answer to this conversation.”

 _For it to be comforting_ , she added silently, _I’d have to be able to share this with someone_. 

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Scout drummed his fingers against his thighs. “Look, lady, I ain’t a complicated man, not like some of those assholes. I ain’t gonna make this about anything but fun.” _I heard the fight_ , he thought. _We all did. And Demo is in everybody’s dog house tonight for fucking this up_. _I owe you for the burn, lady, but I ain’t gonna make this worse for everybody to get back at you._

The Cook held up a hand, trying for firm and getting a small quaver in her voice which the Scout found saddening. “Let me stop you right there, Scout. You’re all a little different. I’m prepared for you to be yourself if I get to be myself.”

 _Right, okay_ , he thought, _so I gotta cheer her up, too_. _I can do that._ “Oh yeah, Toots,” he said, playfully. “Been looking forward to you being yourself. And who am I?”

She blinked, and answered slowly. “A simple man?” _Myself_ , she thought. _What does he think I am?_

He beamed at her as if she had just answered a complicated problem. “Pretty much.” The Scout started to pull the tape from his hands, leaving sticky, lighter stripes on his skin and dropping the tape on the floor. “You would not believe how good that feels at the end of the day.” He flexed his long, thin fingers. “Them strips hold my fingers together so hard it gets to hurting by the end of the day. My hands swell, ya know?”

She found herself fumbling for something to say, running the blanket through her fingers over and over. “They keep calling you kid. How old are you?”

He gave her a lopsided grin as he pulled his sweat shirt over his head. “At this rate, I’ll be nineteen forever.” His chest was smooth as a boy, skin tight over the long, ropy muscles of a runner. The Scout flexed at her, making a few faces and trying to get her to giggle as well as notice that he had very little body fat. She finally cracked a smile when he waggled his eyebrows at her and he sighed with relief. _Shit_ , he thought, _she’s really broken up about the whole thing_. _Why did Demo have to make this so fucking emotional—the rest of us are going to be dealing with the whole “you have to have deep love over everything” thing forever, here._

He was obviously clowning to make her smile, and she was grateful—the Scout would not have been her choice under any other circumstances. He was loud, talked way too much and she couldn’t imagine he had a lot of experience with women. But there he was, making ridiculous faces and flexing away, peering at her out from under his thick eyelashes and smiling secretively when she smiled. After she’d finally given up and started grinning at him, he stopped flexing and stood still, head cocked and looking at her smile.

“But how old are you really,” she asked.

The Scout shrugged. _Man, this old question_ , he thought. _Shit, I wish RED had picked me up a few years later, ‘cause they always think I’m a kid_. “Old enough, lady. Old enough. I do have some good news.” He bent at the waist, pulling at his shoes, his tags swinging like a pendulum.

“What’s that?” Her fingers grabbed the blanket, bunching it up in her palms.

“I can go just as long as you want me to.” The tags bounced against his chest as he leaned down to pull his feet from his pants.

She watched him undressing, poised between the desire to stay and to go hide from the last day of existential angst. The Scout was strange, now that she was watching him closely—a mix of man and boy, of the optimism of youth and the cynicism of age. The goofy posing, coupled with the secretive glances and smiles made him hard to read. She replied absently, mind working at trying to figure him out. “I remember that about boys… I mean, men your age.”

 _Well, lady_ , he replied silently, _I’m about to surprise the hell out of you if you keep thinking about me like a boy._ The Scout stepped out of his pants and shook his shoulders loose like a sprinter at the gate.

“Did you ever play sports,” she said, watching him stretch as if preparing for a competition. “Track, maybe?”

He rolled his eyes, letting his whole head follow it in an exaggerated circle, and looked at her. “Ya think?” _Come on, lady, laugh_ , he thought. _I’m being funny here specifically to knock you outta that funk._

The Cook was smiling again, despite herself. “How did you end up here?”

“I can almost outrun a car over short distances. Almost.” A quarter-sized scar made a star in his upper right arm. He watched her look at it. “I ain’t faster than a bullet, though.” He rubbed his hands together, trying to peel the adhesive off. “Okay, get naked, Toots.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

 _Come on_ , he thought. _Trust me, lady, I ain’t gonna hurt you_. _You’re gonna like this._ “Like I said, I ain’t complicated.” The fine blonde hair on his arm stood up in the cold of the room and he huffed, shifting from foot to foot restlessly. “Come on, it’s cold.”

The Cook pulled her thermal over her head, pushed her pants down, and dove under the blanket on her bed. “Does the furnace even work when it gets this cold?”

He slid in beside her. “It’s twelve degrees out there, babe. The furnace can only do so much.” The Scout looked down into the tent of the covers. “Not bad. I like a little less tit, but still not bad.” He laid a smooth hand on one breast and lifted it gently. “More than a mouthful. Hell, more than a handful.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t shut up I’m kicking you out of my room.” _Don’t_ , she thought. _Just don’t ruin this by talk_ —her thoughts cut off as he dove forward, pulling her entire nipple into his mouth with a quick, hard suck. She grunted and looked down at him, wide eyed.

“Oh yeah, I see what they meant. Okay, I can do a little complicated.” _Good thing I eavesdropped on a few of ‘em before tonight_ , he thought. _This ain’t normally my show, but I can do some of it._

Before she could lose that dizzied look, the Scout reached for the other breast and kneaded it, startling her out of her stillness. She reached down to cradle him in her hand. The Scout’s cock curved hard to the right, blushing a surprisingly bright red. He was freshly shaved, smooth and hairless.

His eyebrows rose. _Well,_ the Scout thought, _that ain’t like what they were describing_. “Like what you see, lady?”

“That’ll be a nice mouthful.” Her eyes were level, and the Scout gave a mental shrug. _If she wants to drive this thing for awhile_ , he thought, _she can have it._ “Fuck yeah,” he said. “Go ahead.”

The Cook scooted down under the covers, making a tent over his cock, and breathed gently over it. He twitched, thumping her nose, and she laughed. The Cook darted her tongue out and licked a tiny trail up his cock, for the pleasure of watching him squirm.

“Come on, lady. Please!” The Scout’s hips turned. “Don’t tease!”

The Cook grabbed his cock and pulled it down slightly before engulfing it in her mouth. The Scout’s cock slid along her palate and he groaned. She flattened her tongue and sucked with the back of her mouth, small, swallowing movements that tugged at the head of his cock. The blanket tightened as he slammed his hands down on either side of his thighs. “Christ!” He lifted the blanket and looked down at her.

“Mmmmhhh?” She rolled her eyes up, questioning.

The Scout very nearly came on the spot. Her lips were fat and wrapped around his cock, cheeks reddened by the hot air beneath the blanket. The expression on her face was naughty, and as he watched she made another of those small swallowing movements, hollowing her cheeks and sliding the soft, slick skin at the back of her palate over him. “No, no,” he gasped, momentarily breathless. “Keep doin’ that. Just like that.” _I am not going to look at her when she does that_ , he thought, _or I’m going to be embarrassingly fast in the sack_. He stared at the ceiling, taking deep, measured breaths. _All right_ , he thought to himself, _so it has been awhile and I’ve been thinking about this for a few weeks. I’m still going to hang on for awhile longer._

She did, and when her tongue started to tire, she pulled back to run it around the underside of his head. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face in the still, dim tent of the blanket, and she pumped her hand around him, twisting gently at the top. She could hear him start to pant, and put her mouth against the head of his cock, lapping at him while her hand ran up and down. Above her, his breath grew ragged and he made a high pitched whimper.

“Hey, lady, I’m gonna—“

She leaned forward, sucking him in, and he shouted, filling her mouth. She made a face, nose pressed against him, and swallowed. After he finished throbbing, she pulled back and wriggled up through the blanket.

“Fuck,” he said, red-faced and sweaty. “Toots, that was great. Gimmie about five minutes and I’m good again.”

The Cook smirked, pleased with her work, and propped her head up on her arms. “So, Scout, how did you end up here?”

“Christ, really? You wanna talk about our lives right now?” He shifted and put an arm behind his head, a small tuft of tawny hair sticking up from his armpit. “Hell, why not? My ma had six of us, all fellas. Our dads were kinda shitty, you know? They didn’t stick around or help or nothin’, so we learned to do for ourselves.”

The Scout looked over at her, searching her face. “Ever been there? You know, like poor and shit?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been poor.”

“Really poor, though? Like… like not everybody eats and shit?”

“Yeah, that poor.” _Living in a park poor_ , she added silently _. Begging for food poor. Yeah, I been poor, kid._

“All right. So my ma never asked for nothin’, but she was always so nice. Real pretty, too. Her taste in fellas was shit, and there was this Valentine’s Day and she wasn’t expecting nothin’ from no one. So there was this place down the block. Real nice stuff. And they had a gold heart necklace in the window, with these tiny little heart earrings.”

She smiled, a surge of affection making her lips bow. “That’s… really sweet, Scout.” _Of all the stories I’ve been told_ , she thought, _this is actually the nicest. He’s a sweet boy_.

 _Well, all right_ , he thought. _I’ll take that smile and the warm feelings behind it_. “Nah, nah. It’d have been sweet if that cop car hadn’t come around the corner at just the right time to catch me smashing the window with a brick.” He made a face. “It ruined her damn day.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t tell me how you got _here_.”

“I ran track, and I set the state record.”

“And RED saw it?”

“Yeah. They made some kind of deal with the courts, and I got sent here. RED paid me when I signed the contract, and I used to send it home. Sent three of my brothers to college.” He stretched and turned toward her. “So, you ready for round two?”

She realized she was a little nervous—he seemed so young that she felt mildly guilty. _I know he’s at least seventy_ , she chided herself. _He just looks like he’s in his teens_. _He really looks like he’s in his teens_. Her voice was hesitant. “You have something in mind?”

His eyes narrowed. _There it is_ , he thought. _I knew it was there, ‘cause it’s always there_. _She’s still thinking of me as the kid I look like, and she’s feeling conflicted about it._ “Yeah, actually,” he said, voice cracking sharply in the frozen air. “Get your ass up on the drawers over there.”

The Cook looked at him, a rim of white around her eyes, and got up, shivering. She climbed onto the chest of drawers, her legs dangling off the side, and watched him bound across the room. _That,_ he thought with a great deal of satisfaction _, is more like what I was hearing about. Saves time this way. I don’t gotta make a million historical references to convince her I’m not a kid_. _I just gotta get all authoritative at her. Wish buying beer was this easy._

“Okay, toots, this is how it’s gonna go. Pull your knees up.”

She blinked several times and pulled her knees to her chest, balancing on her hands and ass.

“Now spread ‘em.”

He could see her starting to push back, the surprise of hearing him bark commands wearing off. “Are you sure this will work? It’s kind of hard to balance here.”

“Yeah, trust me.”

She pulled her knees apart and looked at him through them, curious now. He bit his bottom lip, trying not to smile. _Curiosity_ , he thought, _is about to give the kitty a workout_.

“Okay, scoot down a little.” The Scout stepped between her legs and grabbed her hips, pulling until the edge of her ass hung over the chest of drawers. “That’s the ticket.”

He guided himself into her slowly, noticing that ordering her around had done some of the work for him. _We’ll just chalk that one up to things I’mma use a bunch_ , he thought. “How’s that?”

The Cook blinked. “That’s….” She made a quiet moan. The angle made him rub hard against her favorite spot, and the feeling of being suspended that way, of hanging on for dear life and trying not to fall was oddly erotic. Her weight was balanced on her arms and his hips, her legs tucked up against her and out of the way so that he could bury himself far enough back to tap her cervix.

 _Surprise_ , the Scout thought, grinning at the fuzzy look on her face. _I can actually find my way around a pussy_. “See? Now hold it.”

The Cook leaned forward slightly, pushing up on her arms and locking her elbows behind her, and he started to thrust, rubbing himself over her g-spot, his tags jingling against his chest. “Good, ain’t it?”

“Oh Christ, yes.” The angle let him push up in a long, demandingly hard strip on the front of her cunt, the sensation dragging across every last millimeter of skin in a sensation that went from fullness to electric sparks and back. She felt like she should be breathing with the stroke—in as he came up, and out as he came back, whole body moving with him, the intense pressure robbing her of thought.

"Trust me,” he said, smugly. “It can get better.” Her head lolled back on her shoulders and he smiled, reaching for her clit. “You one of those…”

“Mmmhmm.” Her head came up slightly and fell back.

“Gotcha.” He rubbed her clit gently, bending his knees slightly as he pulled out and bouncing up with every stroke, adding a tight, thrumming to the pressure that immediately locked her muscles around him, sucking and parting. She was panting with him, in and out with each stroke, head bouncing back loosely. The Scout laughed, delighted. “Surprise, toots.” _Fuck_ , he thought, _she really gets into this_. _They ain’t usually this open_.

Her knees, held up between them, started to shake in the air, and she made a wavering sound—uncertain, questioning, rising in tone.

“What are you waiting for,” he panted. “Go already.”

She took a deep breath and shrieked, her knees coming down hard against his chest, violent tremors and sweat making them slick as she scrabbled for purchase with rubbery joints.

“We ain’t done, toots.” As if to make his point, every bounce came up a little harder. She squirmed, somewhere between pain and the lingering warmth of her orgasm. “Gimmie another.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she whimpered.

“Yeah, you can. Trust me.”

When her knees started to shake again, he wrapped an arm around them and pulled them into his chest for leverage, stilling the jingle of his tags between them. He leaned back slightly, thrusting his hips forward to slap against her ass.

“Jesus, Scout!”

“Come on, Toots, another one.”

When she came, she pulled herself forward, grabbing at his arm, and made a high-pitched squeak that trailed off into a soundless gasp.

“Fuck yeah,” he panted. “That’s what I wanted to see.” His arm tightened on her legs painfully, and he shouted in pleasure. She opened her eyes in time to see him biting his lip as he arched into her, and shivered, setting off another hard squeeze.

“Oh goddamn, lady!” He froze against her and she watched him twitch. “Give me a second, here.” He pulled out and stood, hands braced on either side of her. “Hhh—” The Scout took a deep breath. “Okay, over there.” The Scout pulled an arm up and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Back to the bed.”

“I hope you’re going to help me,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“Huh? Can’t walk already?” The Scout scratched his chest and yawned. _I’m beat_ , he thought. _She ain’t big, but that balancing act’ll take it out of ya_.

She laughed weakly. “Maybe I can walk.” As her feet hit the ground, her knees wobbled. “Maybe not.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, we’ll do this thing together.”

Clinging to each other, they toddled to the bed and fell on it.

“I’ll give you this much,” she said. “You ain’t complicated, but you’re fun.”

 _Shit_ , he thought. _I’d take a bow but I’m way too tired._ “Must be a nice change, ain’t it? No whips, no chains. I just wanna fuck you.”

“Hey,” she said defensively. “I like those things sometimes, but this is good, too.” _Please_ , she thought. _Just don’t... I mean, I’m not just…_ She sighed aloud. _Is there even a point in finishing that statement?_ _Maybe I just am that way_. _Maybe the Demo’s right and I just don’t give a shit_. _Except that this hurts. God, this hurts_. She curled on her side, away from the Scout, miserable enough to be her own company.

The Scout rolled on his side and looked at her. _Fuck. Well_ , he thought, _she was happy for a minute there_. “I was a little worried, to be honest,” he said. “Some of them fucks are kinda… well, you know.”

The Cook’s voice was muffled by her body. “Complicated?” _Oh Jesus, suck it up_ , she thought, scolding herself. _I had a perfectly good time and here I am, brooding. Let him have a little credit for his good work_. _And for the love of fuck, enjoy something without second-guessing it_.

“Yeah,” he said, watching the line of her spine closely. “All whips and sharp shit. I wasn’t sure you’d even be into this.” _Something is bugging her_ , he thought. _More with the Demo? Come on, lady, it was a good time. Let it be a good time_.

The Cook turned on her back, the skin under her eyes shivering, and made a show of pulling her arms over her head and pointing her toes, stretching. “Oh no, this was good, too.” _It was_ , she thought. _It was. I just…_ Her chest was viciously empty.

The Scout reached over and flicked her nipple. _Like I don’t know when you’re pulling my leg_ , he thought. _You need me to pull your chain a little, lady? Fine, I’ll pull it so you stop doing that shit._

She squeaked and glared at him. _That’s better_ , he thought.

“I can see why they’d like it, though,” he said. “Them squeaks and squeals are nice to hear.”

The teasing was familiar, and she grasped for it gratefully, laying an arm across both breasts, to cover her nipples, and narrowing her eyes—the reaction was theatric in its overacting, and reminded him not a little of Mae West. _Vampy_ , he thought, _but cute_.

“I’ll bite, next time,” she said, voice purring in something that might have been authentic. He doubted it, but it was nice of her to try.

“Lady,” he said, giving her a cheerfully naughty grin. “If you bite, so do I.”

She gave him a dirty smile. _Nah_ , he thought. _Not Mae West, but a damn good try. Maybe a little Monroe in there?_ “Oh, darn,” she said, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “Whatever shall I do?”

 _Well shit_ , he thought, _I recognize a cue when I hear it._ He waggled his eyebrows again. “Knowing you, toots, scream like a banshee.”

“Mmmmm…..” She smiled, pleased with the exchange.

 _Come on, lady_ , he thought. _You performed like a champ and you ain’t half witty. You can like it_. “You tired?” The Scout scratched his short, blonde hair and settled his arm under the pillow he’d brought with him.

“After that last one, yeah. Do you want to spoon, or can we just pass out?”

“Whatever. I ain’t picky.”

The Cook turned, facing him, and drew her knees up slightly. “You get to be the little spoon.”

“All right. I said I wasn’t picky. I ain’t kidding.” The Scout turned and scooted back until his ass met her hips. The Cook kissed his back and wrapped an arm around him, then rested her forehead against his spine. _He’s been kind of sweet_ , she thought. _I wasn’t expecting him to be sweet_.

“Kissing, huh? I must have done a good job.”

“If you don’t shut the hell up, I’m leaving.”

“Night, toots.” The Scout squirmed down a little and brought his knees up, looking for a comfortable position. The Cook tightened her arm and bent with him, draping herself over his back with a quiet sigh.

“Shut up, Scout.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Faith No More, "Edge of the World"


	14. Chapter 14

The Cook spent that morning listening to the announcer screech about the BLU team and lost points, tuning it out in favor of the measured routines of the kitchen. When the BLU spy did not show up, she put the knife in her belt on the counter, and started dinner. The knife against the cutting board clunked rhythmically as she minced onions, and the low murmur and pop of the stew made a pleasant contrast to the high-pitched cackling and crowing of the announcer, then the thunderous groans of what sounded like a stadium. She made herself a cup of coffee and leaned forward against the cabinet, looking out the small window by the sink at a small, dun colored bird— _a wren_ , she thought. _Or maybe some sort of sparrow_. It cocked a tiny head and peered at her through one dark eye and then the other, untroubled by the groans echoing across the desert sand. A pair of hands curled around her hips, fingers fitting themselves familiarly around the bone and she startled up, trying to turn. The bird flew away with a faint clap of its wings.

“No peeking.”

She didn’t recognize the whisper. _Right_ , she thought. _Well, if you were the BLU spy, you’d already be taunting me, and the round is over, so it’s someone on the team_. The fingers rhythmically squeezed, soothing the tight muscles that joined her legs to her torso and she grunted. The last five hours of being on her feet had made her hips sore. Whomever it was massaging them had found a tense spot, and was slowly working it out of her. She made a tiny moan, and then sighed regretfully. “That feels good, but I have to tend the stew.”

“Turn it off.”

The vowels were particularly short. _If that’s the Scout_ , she thought, _he really has talented fingers_. The rhythmic squeezing slowed, fingers digging for deep pressure on a painful knot. _All right,_   _I’ll play along later. But I have to finish dinner_. “They hired me to do a job, they didn’t hire me to do this. I need to actually do my real job before I get up to anything else.”

Breath on the back of her neck, tickling—she shivered. _Someone was working hard to be very, very persuasive_ , she thought, arousal stirring in a surge of warmth.

“Turn it off anyway.” Lips brushed her ear, stubble scratching against her earlobe, and a body touched hers too briefly for her to pick up anything but heat and an instant of pressure.

“Oh yeah,” she said, teasingly. “Going to make it worth my while?” Excitement tingled in the warmth of her arousal—to not see the person, to not know whose body fit into hers. She poked fun at herself, wryly. _Who hasn’t had this fantasy_ , she thought. _Well, since we’re apparently going to hit all my fantasies…_

The quiet laugh was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. The hands on her hips were insistent, and pushed her toward the stove, to turn off the flame. She turned it off with a click and a mental shrug. _Surely it wouldn’t hurt_ , she thought, _if dinner were a little late_. _Those are really talented fingers_.

“Let’s go.”

The fingers on her hips steered her out of the room. Footsteps fell on either side of hers, a long stride made awkward by her smaller steps. _Too tall to be the Scout_ , she thought. _Who’s taller than Scout? Solly, Medic, Demo, Heavy, Sniper and Spy. Well, Heavy and Demo are right out, and I can’t picture Medic doing this without Heavy, so it must be Solly, Sniper or Spy. Except Solly isn’t this bold. Is he?_ “Who is this?”

“Shhhh.”

 _Maybe Solly is this bold_ , she thought. _But I just can’t imagine him doing this_. _The Spy or Sniper, however, might. But I don’t hear the Australian drawl or pouty French_ _in that whisper_. “Come on,” she said, tone rising with minor irritation. “Who is it? I have to get back to dinner if you want to eat.”

“Shhhhh!”

She frowned. The hands steered her left, and then right, and then left again, toward a single door at the end of a hallway.

“I don’t know this door,” she said, suspicion making her start to drag her feet. The hands dug in around her hips and pushed forward insistently.

“I know.”

The whisper held the beginnings of laughter, skipping his breath. _Wait_ , she thought. _Is that tone familiar? Where have I heard it before_? “No, seriously, who are you?”

“Guess.”

It was a voice now. Not Australian, not French, somehow blandly American and teasingly familiar. The Cook dug her heels in, leaning back, but the hands wrapped around her waist and lifted, dragging her along. “Put me down,” she said, trying to twist as the arms tightened.

“Not yet.”

She looked down. The hands were gloved in black leather, and the arms were covered in a loose black sweatshirt. “No, I don’t think so,” she said, and wrenched herself sideways in the arms, trying to get a look at his face. She caught a glimpse of the side of a hood before they pushed through the door. There was a prick on the side of her neck and she gasped from chilly shock, then tried to turn again, wrenching the needle from whomever was holding it. A hand on the side of her head pinned it to the chest behind her and pulled the needle from her neck.

The sun overhead grew very bright, and then went away entirely.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

Voices swam up into her consciousness from some strange, distant place, popping like bubbles on the surface of her hearing. She clawed up after them through the heavy, dark water, trying to make sense of the sounds. Urgent. One voice was urgent. The other was—she grasped for a word—satisfied. Her eyes opened. The world was blurry and she was heavy, pressed down to the hard surface beneath her. Her eyes rolled about under the stones on her lids. _Wake up_ , she thought. _I have to wake up_. She opened them to patterns and pale light, and frowned with the effort of trying to figure out what was in front of her, not to slip back down into the waiting darkness. There was something soft lying against her cheek, pulling her back toward sleep. She worked her lower lip into her teeth and bit hard, the pain letting her keep her eyes open, staring at a dark pattern in front of her vision. Words. She could hear words.

“… wouldn’t believe what they’re doing right now. They’re tearing that base up.”

“Finders keepers.” The satisfied voice was familiar. “BLU is being cheap, and between this and the loss, we just fucked them. We captured the point and,” the voice held laughter, “captured their point.”

“When will she wake up?”

“Any minute now. The Doc should be in here soon to check on her.”

“Hey, her eyes are open.”

“Sure are. Hello, Rosie.”

The Cook worked to focus her eyes on the tall, wide form in front of her, leaning down to see her face. Her glasses were gone, she realized dully. The figure leaned down further, stepping in and allowing the BLU Soldier’s face to swing into focus with the slow spin of the room. That predatory smile was back, a chilly little thing that did nothing to soften the rest of his expression. Her mouth felt glued together and it took her three tries to make a sound. “B-blue.”

“Yep, sweetheart. BLU.” His fingers flexed on his knees and she remembered them digging at the knots on her hips, a blush sweeping up her cheeks. He followed the line of her gaze and flexed them again, watching her face heat with wry satisfaction.

“Don’t wanna be here.” Her thoughts were viscous, slurring out of her mouth.

“Probably not,” he said, watching her face. “But here you are.” The light changed and she realized after a moment that he’d stepped away from her, back to a fuzzy silhouette. “Hey Doc. Put her out or sober her up?”

The voice, when it came, was buttery smooth. “Let her wake. She can’t get out, and this is more fun when they’re awake.”

The Cook took a deep breath and tried to lift her head against the sensation of wearing a lead suit. Something jingled and pushed at her neck. She reached numbed fingers up and tugged at it, clumsy fingers exploring: a leather band. A collar, she realized, her breath stuttering. A heavy lock. A chain. Panic started to burn the sedative out of her system, her heart pounding in her chest as if it could punch through the cage of her ribs. She tried to sit up, knocking her head on a low ceiling and rebounding on rubbery arms. _No_ , she thought, squinting. _Not a ceiling. A large dog crate._ She whipped her head around, trying to see the door, and made herself dizzy enough to fall on her face. She put shaking hands beneath herself, trying to push away from the bottom of the cage, and fell again.

“Give it a minute there, Rosie,” the BLU Soldier said. “It’ll come out of your system soon enough.”

Lying on the floor of the cage, she panted while the room spun rapidly around her. “I think I’m going to….” She gagged, body jack-knifing, and covered her mouth with her tingling hands.

“Did you have to give her that much, Doc,” the BLU Soldier growled.

“It’ll wear off,” the BLU Medic said, idly. “Be patient.”

“She isn’t going to be able to do much until it does.”

“Did you really go to that much trouble to get a cook? If you got her for any other reason, just flip her over.”

The Cook curled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, fetal. The BLU Medic’s voice hadn’t changed, banal and bored, neither excited nor even particularly interested in the prospect, as if this were merely part of the daily routine on base.

“Why, Doc,” the BLU Soldier said, a nasty little lilt to his voice. “You don’t want any?”

“My dear Soldier, I’m a real sadist, not a sexual sadist. I have uses for her, but none of them involve sex the way you people mean it.” The Medic laughed dryly. “I’ll take what’s left. Are we bothering to give her back, or can I enjoy myself?” At that, interest crept into his voice—an edge of heat. She dug her fingers into her own legs, eyes screwed shut, trying to stem the tide of panic. _What kind of man.… what kind of men.…_ Her thoughts cut off, stunned.

“She’s not much of a trophy dead, Doc.”

The Cook heard a labored sigh.

“Doc,” the BLU Soldier said, his voice full of a genuine disbelief, “how the hell did you get past medical school?”

“I’m a surgeon. People pay me to cut them open, and I have more than adequate self-control.” The Cook heard a clinking noise and a rustle, and realized she hadn’t blinked. Her eyes were burning. She closed them. Her pulse hammered in her ears, almost obscuring the BLU Medic’s voice and the disgust in it. “If you’re going to amuse yourself, I’m leaving.”

“Suit yourself, Doc.”

Two sets of shoes clicked away, and the Cook heard the squeak of steps coming closer to her. She opened her eyes to see the BLU Soldier leaning down over the top of the cage, that predatory smile back. As she watched, he took a breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. _Waiting_ , she thought. _I don’t want to know what he’s waiting for_. _I don’t even want to guess_. Her mind, however, presented her with several lurid pictures that sent another wave of nausea and cold chills sweeping across her body.

“I know the Spy is interested,” he said. “I am, too, but I’m not into Roman showers, so I’ll wait.”

“Why,” the Cook swallowed heavily, clammy sweat clinging to her face. “Why are you….”

He laughed expansively, comfortably. “I could say it’s traditional, and it is. God knows I’ve been to enough wars to know. But mostly, sugar, it’s a competition thing. If the office had found someone like you and shelled out, we’d probably just capture you ever so often for the fuck of it. But BLU is being cheap as hell, or maybe one of the brothers is mad about it, and so we don’t have one. It’s months between visits to town, and even then sometimes we can’t find anyone. And, frankly, the look on the RED soldier’s face told me a hell of a lot about how important you are.”

The BLU Soldier squatted down and rattled the cage, watching her flinch at the clatter, curled up protectively around herself. _Instinct_ , he thought, _ain’t it lovely the way their bodies try to hide, the way their minds try to hide from what they know is coming_. A slow thrill of anticipation made him shiver and his eyes darkened, pupils expanding.

“But mainly, baby,” he said, voice thick with ecstatic rush, “we’re fucking bored, pun intended. So I’m going to sit here and talk to you for awhile. And then I’m going to have a little fun with you.”

“What,” she swallowed again against the urge to vomit. “I mean—why would you rape?” _Look at him_ , she thought. _Look at the expression on his face_. _Mercy has never touched that face_. The only emotion she could recognize was the hunger lighting his features and the visceral satisfaction of seeing her fear. _He really doesn’t care_ , she thought. _He doesn’t seem conflicted._ Her mouth sagged open. _Oh my god, he’s done this before._

“Honey-child,” he drawled, a hint of accent coloring his speech, “if you ain’t figured it out yet, we’re all fucked up around here. The Marines, when they kicked me out, said I was a psychopath. I’ve been pulling the wings off flies and little girls since I was old enough to grab them.”

He sat down on the concrete floor, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and loosely clasping his hands. “But let’s talk about you. I know what the RED Sniper is into. I assume you weren’t kicking and screaming for that. It means you’re as fucked up in your own ways as any one of us. Did something happen, or was it natural for you?”

“Fuck you,” she said, panic pitching her voice high.

“I will,” he said, then paused to watch the expression on her face. “But answer the question, or it’ll be much more fun for me than you. I always did like it when the girl is crying and a little bloody.” _That did it_ , he thought as the first tear puddled in her eye socket. _They do the same thing every time_. _Begging is up next_.

Her eyes flicked up to him, wide and wet. After a stunned silence, she spoke. “I don’t know the answer.” _If I knew_ , she added silently, anger pushing back against the urge to simply give up, _I would have figured out how to be someone else and I wouldn’t be here_.

“Jesus, honey, it’s not a hard question. Did someone rattle your cage when you were small?” He reached out and shook the walls of the crate, making her yelp. “Or have you always gotten hot and bothered for pain?”

The BLU soldier watched her shaking and waited until she had managed to tame some of it before continuing. _Strong-willed,_ he thought, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. _These are the most fun to break_. “I’m looking forward to that, actually,” he said, conversationally. “I’m looking forward to your body responding while you want to die. So which was it?”

The Cook closed her eyes, unable to think for a moment, terror screaming deafeningly inside her skull.

“Come on, honey,” he coaxed, voice full of disorienting charm. “It’s just us freaks in here. You can tell me.”

Her voice was distant, buried under the screams that were making her head ring like a bell. “I couldn’t tell you which one. I don’t know.”

 _Fight_ , she thought. _No, goddamn it, fight_. _There has to be something you can do_. She opened her eyes and started slowly scanning the cage and its contents: a blanket. The chain. Herself. A water bowl— _a water bowl_ ? Her rage was instantaneous, and she embraced it, let it clear the horror that set her nerves crawling and filled her with mindless fear. The Cook took a deep breath and pushed it out hard. _No_ , she thought. _No, I’m not having it._   _I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do, but I’m not fucking having this as long as I’m conscious and able to do something_.

“Ha! Every single one of you bitches so far. Every single one has a little something in their background. I can see it on you, that guilty little twitch.” The BLU Soldier stuck a long finger through one of the holes in the crate and feathered it down her foot, the sensation making her cringe and shaking her resolve.

“So who was it,” he said, satisfied. “Daddy? Boyfriend? Teacher? Stranger? Who made all those pretty shards in your head?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you when you open that door.” She could hear the tremor of fear in her voice and hated it, raging at herself for feeding him any sign of weakness. _It is feeding_ , she thought, nausea rising again. _He is eating this up_.

“No, honey, you’ll try, which is good. Fight me for it.” He rubbed himself, visibly hard, eyes glittering under the florescent light, and shivered. “God yes, fight me for it.”

She gagged. _I have to keep him talking_ , she thought. _I need time. I have to think of something_. “No, now it’s my turn. You ever been arrested for any of this?”

He gave her a knowing smile, eyebrows cocked over the charm he’d turned on again like a switch. “That’s how BLU got me. They must have connections everywhere in the legal system. Every one of us has a record. No one will say what for, but it’s gotta be homicide all around by the way they fight.” He shrugged, then looked her up and down. “My turn. I’m guessing boyfriend.”

“No, not a boyfriend. My turn.” _If he gets close enough_ , she thought, brow wrinkling, _I might be able to strangle him with the chain. But he’s fucking huge. There’s no way I can outmuscle him_. “What did you get in trouble for?”

“Which time, honey?” His amusement was sardonic, his lips twitching. _Oh sweetie_ , he thought, _go ahead, try to think of ways to overpower me. All the brains in that head aren’t going to stop me_. “The time BLU found me? I’ll tell you, but I want to be touching you when I do. I want to see your face from very, very close.”

The BLU Soldier could see her stop thinking, the panic again burning the thoughts out of her head. “My turn,” he said, cheerily. “What made you hottest when the RED sniper touched you?”

The Cook closed her eyes then opened them, staring into the distance, and didn’t answer. Some part of her was retreating, emptying, and she let it go. The cage grew distant around her, fading.

“No,” he said, irritation sharp in his voice. “That’s not how this is played, honey. So now we talk about forfeits. If you don’t answer, I’m going to open this cage and we’re going to play the game that got me kicked out of the Marines, and you’d better not vomit on me. My favorite part was always what they taught us about interrogation, and I’ll violate the shit out of the Geneva Convention to get an answer.” He paused. “Not that we use the Geneva Convention out here.”

“Power,” she gasped, convulsing, fear pushing the words out of her.

He blinked, surprised. _A strong-willed masochist_ , he thought. _Well, shit, this is about to get entertaining as fuck_. _They get all confused and guilty when they’ve got that shit in the background._ _When I break this one, she’s going to think it’s her fault_ . His cock gave a single, heavy throb. _And when she does break, there ain’t much I won’t be able to make her do_.

The BLU Soldier’s breath hissed in through his teeth and his eyelids fluttered. “That, honey-child,” he said slowly, a flush staining his cheeks, “makes you rarer than a two-dicked midget.” He shifted, readjusting himself and watching her eyes follow his hand, horror draining the blood from her face and giving it a green tinge. “I don’t know where they dug you up, but someone did their homework.”

Something in the space behind her eyes screamed over and over, and she pushed at it. _I have to get angry_ , she thought. _Angry_. Despair wrapped its leaden arms around her and whispered in her ear: _nothing you can do_. She was falling, air rushing in her ears as despair dragged her down. She scrabbled for something to anchor her. _I can’t let him just have control_ , she thought. _Fuck, at least get angry for your own goddamn survival_. _Get angry about something. Anything_.

“I’m not always a masochist,” she said, voice shaking. The urge to pee suddenly, incongruously, made her squirm. A small, detached part of herself wanted to laugh. _All those books and movies_ , she thought, _and I thought this was a metaphor_. _I thought they were kidding. Exaggerating_. _It’s all I can do not to piss myself_.

“I don’t think any of us will care one way or the other about that, though it’d be funny to see you try with the Doc.” The BLU Soldier paused, tongue touching his lips. “I think I’d pay to see that. Of course, it’d be sort of one-way for you. Doc is not very tolerant of anything he can’t order around. We only get away with it because we can kill him if he gets too far out of line.”

He bent down to peer into the holes in the cage. “How are you feeling there, honey? Still pukey?” _Time to beg soon_ , he thought, _but I’ll let you keep trying to hide for a little longer_. _You keep lying to yourself at little longer in there, honey_. _It’ll be even sweeter when you realize it’s a lie_.

“Yes.” She could feel the pressure on the back of her throat, her stomach making small, convulsive movements.

“Tell you what. I’ll give you a few more questions before we make friends.”

The Cook sobbed once, dry and hoarse, and clapped both hands over her mouth, fighting not to vomit.

“Yeah, there’ll be some of that later,” he said, drily. “Ask me a question, honey.”

“What—,” she cleared her throat. “What got you kicked out of the Marines?”

“Right to the meat, huh? Eager little thing, ain’t you? You dying to get to it?” He watched the barb sink in before continuing— _there’s that guilt_ , he thought as she froze. _You’re going to have nightmares, sugar. You’re never getting away from me, not even in your own head_. _I’m going to pry that thing open and make myself a little nest, and all that guilt is going to help me_.

“They caught me persuading a prisoner in ways the legal branch thought were contrary to proper behavior.” _Come on_ , he urged her silently. _Ask me what I mean_.

 _I have to keep him talking_ , she thought. _Have to keep him talking and not touching me_. “Persuading,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.

“If the little fucker hadn’t been screaming so loud, I’d have had time to finish. I let go of his neck for a second to adjust his position and he screamed like a dying rabbit.”

The Cook whimpered and stopped herself from pulling the blanket next to her over her head with a great deal of effort.

“Look,” he said, making his voice cheerful. “It ain’t so bad for you. You’re in their respawn, right? I won’t let you die, but even if we got a little out of hand, you’d just pop back there in a few minutes. It leaves a nasty taste in your mouth, but nothing’s permanent. And hell, you might even like it.” _That’s right_ , he added silently, _try to figure out which one you want more: do you want to die more than you want to hang on, hoping someone will rescue you? You sure as shit aren’t rescuing yourself_.

From the expression on her face, she would rather die. _Too bad_ , he thought, letting a smile he knew people found unnerving spread slowly across his face. _I’m not going to let you die until I’m sure I’m stuck between your ears, fucking all those little crevices where you think you’re in charge_. _And then, sugar, you’ll just respawn knowing I might come back, that any time you try to forget me I could start it again_.

Behind him, the door swung silently open, unseen, and was propped closed.

The BLU soldier kept talking, watching her face twist. “I can’t wait to see you learning to like it. Women like you always learn to like it one way or the other. Forcing you only—“

The tip of a blade appeared, jutting out his chest, and sawed hard to the left. The BLU soldier choked and slumped, a pink froth bubbling out of his mouth. The air sizzled, and the RED spy squatted by the body, searching the pockets. The Cook screamed once, then stuffed a fist in her mouth, the room narrowing to a small tube edged in black. _No_ , she thought, making herself breathe. _I will not faint. Do not faint_. The black edges started to dissolve as she concentrated, blinking rapidly and biting down on her fist. Adrenaline pumped through her, leaving her shaking but clear-headed.

The RED Spy glanced over at her, at the greenish skin of her face, then quickly down at the body. “ _Merde_. I don’t think he has the key.” He reached the calf pocket on the BLU soldier’s BDUs. “Ah, there it is.”

The Cook sat up quickly, bruising her forehead on the cage. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

“Momentarily.” The RED Spy unlocked the cage and she crawled out, scurrying away from it and slipping in her haste. He let her get some distance away from the thing and quietly hissed at her to get her attention.

She looked over, panting. “Get this thing—,” she raised a hand to the heavy collar, “off my goddamn neck.”

He walked to her and she raised her chin, shuddering, as he tried the other key. He sighed. “ _Vipere_ , I can get the chain from it, but not the collar. He does not have its key.” The RED Spy unlocked the padlock from the collar and dropped the keys to jingle on the floor.

The Cook tugged at the collar, eyes white-rimmed. “Just get it off. Get it off.” She realized distantly that she was shrieking, that it echoed in her head and the room. She gagged, and realized she was choking herself, both fists curled around the leather and pulling until her arms and elbows burned.

“ _Vipere_ ,” the Spy said, command firming his voice. “You cannot panic now. Now we have to run very quietly. They took your shoes and his body just disappeared into respawn, so you will have to run barefoot across the desert to the other base. Take my hand, and now we must go.”

The Cook scrambled upright and grabbed at his hand. “Go! Just go!”

The air shimmered, and she found herself holding something she couldn’t see. His glove in her hand pulled, and she followed him out the door, up a flight of stairs, and into a hallway. At the end of the hallway, they heard voices. He swore and pulled her into the nearest door, an empty bedroom. She crammed her free hand in her mouth, trying to stifle the harsh, shallow sound of her own breathing as the voices passed the door.

“They ain’t gonna recover for awhile. We swept their entire defense and took their damn prize. I wonder how the soldier is doing down there. Do you think he needs any help?”

Another voice, retreating into the distance, replied. “Nah, but he’s fun to watch. I think I’ll go down and see how he’s doing.”

“ _Vipere_ ,” the Spy whispered. “ _Non_!”

The Cook realized she had crumpled down to her knees, the floor rushing up to meet her.

“We have to go now!”

She struggled to her feet, still holding his hand, and followed him out that door and down the hall, then out two more doors and into the desert air. She ran, staggering and tripping herself in her haste, her feet leaving stars of blood in the pale sand. Her back crawled. _Any moment now_ , she thought, leaping over a rock. _Any moment they’re going to come out of that base and he’s going to drag me back in_. The Spy pulled her on, fingers digging into hers, his longer legs blurring in the darkness. The moon was a high spotlight, pointing at them as they ran across the flat expanse. _They’re going to get us_. _They’re going to find us_. _There’s nothing to hide behind_. She couldn’t breathe, chest heaving and lungs straining. The air was feral, snapping at her as they ran, fighting her. Her vision was red at the edges, throbbing. _I’m going to pass out. I’m going to pass out and they’ll find me_.

“A little further. A little further, now,” he panted, the blocky shapes of the base slowly appearing in the distance. “You can do it, _Vipere_.”

 _Is it getting closer_ , she thought dully, the edges of the base seeming to appear and disappear in the darkness, her vision strobing black.

The Spy could feel her slow and looked back at her bloodless face. Without a word, he scooped her up and staggered across the last fifty yards to the base, falling heavily against the doors. He let her down on her own feet and fumbled with the lock, pushing her through and locking the door behind them. She fell prone on the concrete floor, looking up at the ceiling. After a moment, she pushed herself up and crawled past the second set of doors, into the base proper, arms and legs shuddering beneath her. Beside her, the Spy slumped down, sweat sticking his balaclava to his face and darkening his suit. She kept crawling down the hall, leaving droplets of blood and sweat on the floor, head down and hair dragging and pulling beneath palms and knees. He peeled the balaclava off and let it fall with a wet slap on the concrete.

“Gentlemen,” he panted, watching her stubbornly keep crawling but too winded to stop her. “A little help?”

The doors to the living room slammed open, narrowly missing the Cook who simply kept crawling down the hall.

“Christ,” the Scout said. “Look at them.” There was a pause, and his voice came back, hushed. “Look at her feet.”

She kept crawling. _Have to get away_ , she thought. _Have to keep going, to get to safety_. There were voices, but she wasn’t safe yet. She was so slow. How was she supposed to get away if she was so slow? Her arms and legs were wavering, and it took all her concentration to keep them moving, to keep moving, the pain of her hair catching under palms and knees registering as a distant pull, buried under the cold fire at the end of her legs. _My feet_. _There is something wrong with my feet_. _Have to keep going_. She raised a hand, shifting her weight on her bruising knees, and there was something there: a hand. Someone was there, gently and firmly pushing her to sit. She whimpered, and the hand paused, then came back and made her sit down. She fell back and to the side, and the hands helped her sit with her back to the wall. _They caught me_ , she thought, too tired to even sob, and sat there, waiting for whatever would happen next.

“Mischa, get the gun.” The Medic knelt beside her, looking at the vacant expression on her face, and sighed, the wrinkles beside his eyes deepening. He tugged at her feet, pulling them out from under her thighs, and hissed before settling into his habitual, medical distance. “Also bring the emesis basin and tweezers.”

Fingers brushed the bottom of her foot, the pain washing over her like an ocean. _Something is embedded in them_. The thought wandered through the emptied expanse of her head. _There’s something in my feet_ . Her eyes rolled over the figure in front of her. _I know you_ , she thought. _You’re familiar_.

 _Medic_. The word echoed inside her. _The RED Medic_. _I’m in the RED base_. There were figures all around her, silent. _But this isn’t safe. I’m not safe_. _Where can I go to be safe?_ She watched incuriously as the Medic turned to the Spy, his voice cutting. “Did you have to drag her through every sharp thing in the desert?”

“Docteur,” the Spy said, mopping his face with his sleeve, accent thickened by exhaustion, “you are welcome to make that run yourself, barefoot, and tell me what you pick up.” He laid his hands flat on the floor and pushed himself up the wall until he could stand, bent and leaning. “We should prepare for company. I gave the BLU soldier a rather entertaining death.”

The Cook struggled up on her elbows, then hands and knees and started to crawl again. _Get away. Have to get away_.

“No, _Kätzchen_ ,” the Medic’s voice was very gentle. “You must not do this.” He turned to look at the cluster of mercenaries behind them. “Help me get her up.”

“I’ve got the lassie.” The Demo reached down and scooped her up, turning her in his arms. She panicked immediately, pushing weakly at him and making hoarse little noises in the back of her throat. Above her, the Demo’s face emptied and he stiffened, tightening his arms. She screamed, the sound bouncing off the walls, and thrashed. Horror loosened his face and arms, and she started to slide away before he caught her. “Please,” he whispered. “Lass, please.” She looked up, staring through him, the skin on her face twitching and eyes empty. Rage hung a red haze in front of his eyes and he snarled.  She whimpered again, eyes focusing on his expression, and he subdued it with effort, a fine tremor running through his arms. Her gaze went back to the emptiness, and he had to look away, staring a hole in the ceiling, murder written on every inch of his face.

It was silent in the hall for a moment, the quiet like a heavy hand pressing on them all. Behind the doors of the surgery, they could hear the faint sound of the Heavy opening drawers. The Spy’s breath started to slow, and he let himself stand up straight.

The Engineer broke the silence, his voice hushed. “Just don’t drop her, Demo.” He leaned in to see the bottoms of her feet, then looked up to her face and hissed. “I believe the BLU team and I need to have a little chat.”

“Get in line, Truckie,” the Sniper snarled.

They caught the Heavy on the way back and turned him around, to follow the procession. In the surgery, the Demo laid her on the exam table with exaggerated care, then turned. His teammates saw his expression and moved out of the way quickly as he left the room, his fists curled into solid blocks at the end of his arms.

The Engineer whistled quietly. “Tomorrow,” he said, watching the door, “I expect it’s gonna to rain body parts. Ya’ll might think about bringing your own umbrellas.”

“I intend,” the Soldier said, voice muted by his clenched teeth, “to take a shower in it.” With that comment, he turned abruptly on his heel and stomped out of the room, boots squealing loudly against the concrete.

“Sheeeet,” the Engineer said, watching the Soldier disappear. He started to say something else, then stopped himself and looked back at the table and the little figure on it. He sighed heavily and lapsed into silence.

The Medic approached the exam table slowly, watching her stare blankly into the distance. “ _Kätzchen_ , did they give you anything?”

She rolled her eyes over at him, whites showing all the way around her eyes. The words fell around her like little weights and she couldn’t hold them. They slid through her fingers, the whole world sliding around her.

“ _Kätzchen_ ,” he said, slowly, reaching for her hand so that she’d focus on the room. “There are needle marks on both your arms and your neck. What did they give you?”

As he’d expected, her eyes leapt to his hand and she cringed back from it, personality flowing back into her face. She shook her head, blinking profusely. The Cook looked up the line of his arm to his face and swallowed. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

The Medic scrubbed his face with the offending hand, frustrated. _No_ , he thought, _of course she wouldn’t know, dummkopf. At least we have her attention now_.“ _Kätzchen_ , the only things I can do to make the pain go away might make you sick. May I get a quick sample?”

She flinched, then held out an arm, and he slowly removed a needle, vial, and tie from a drawer of the exam table. Her eyes followed him, darting around his hands, her whole body cringing back from the arm she held out. _I’ve seen that before_ , he thought, grief startling him. His memory vomited up a skeletal face and black uniforms before he could stop it, constructing a room around him in an instant. _Coward_ , he thought, then ground his teeth together until they squealed.

The Medic took a breath. “Very brave, _Kätzchen_ ,” he crooned, pity softening his self-loathing. “Very brave _liebling_. This will only sting for a second.”

The Cook closed her eyes as the needle came closer, arm rigid and shaking. The Medic put a hand behind her elbow to hold her arm still and she stopped breathing.

“ _Liebling_ , it will hurt less if you can relax.  Please.”

She forced herself to un-clench her arm, sweating heavily from the effort. When the needle slid into her arm, her hand shook violently and the Medic pinned it between his arm and body. She made a quiet, dry sob and he froze, then quickly impaled the vial on the waiting end of the needle and drew it off. The tie came off her arm with a snap and he gently folded her arm over a cotton ball.

 _I can’t_ , he thought. _I can’t have feelings now_. The Medic turned away from the table and added a drop of the blood and a chemical solution to a vial. He shook the vial and held it up to the light, watching it turn an obscenely bright mauve with a rage that made his hand tremble. “That… doctor.” Her dulled reactions could be shock, but the results of that test—the quick, neon-bright color—told him that she’d been given an irresponsibly high dose of opiates. _Probably codeine_ , he thought, clinically. _It is easy enough for us to get_.

He turned to the Cook, composure settling over his features like a mask. “I am sorry, _liebling_ ,” he said, tone distant. “I cannot give you anything for the pain, and we must pull the scraps from your feet so that your skin does not close over them.” Her pupils were tiny, pinpricks in the brown of her iris, and her lips still held a bluish tinge from her run. He looked down at her hands. The nail beds were blue as well, and at some point she’d torn several nails off, leaving bloody half-moons. Her skin was clammy and tinged with blue-green where it wasn’t torn, or bruised. Her eyes were focused on a point somewhere through the walls of the base. She’d retreated inside herself, aided by whatever dose had kept her limp.

He made himself stop looking at the symptoms. _I could_ , he thought, _administer Naloxone. Of course, I don’t know how much she’s had, but if she hasn’t noticed the damage, she may have enough to suppress pain already_. _Best to take advantage of_ —his fingers convulsed, the thought too close.

Behind him, the Spy gave a start and muttered something before speaking. “I am sorry, _Vipere_. I should have noticed. I of all people should have noticed…” He trailed off, looking at her under the mercilessly bright light of the surgery. _She ran_ , he thought, guilt slapping him in the face. _She ran through the desert and she couldn’t breathe and I didn’t stop to see_. He took a breath, in and out, another burden in a sea of burdens. The Sniper eyed him for a moment, face softening. _There are things_ , the Spy thought, _that no man should do, things even I wouldn’t do_. _There are things he wouldn’t do_. _We would kill a man, but this is a sickness._ They looked at each other and away.

The Cook stared at the Medic with a blank, wet face, her shoulders shaking. _I am a man of science_ , he thought. _I am a professional_ . His fingers curled around the edge of his lab coat. _I have seen worse and I have a job to do_. With an effort, he turned his head. “Mischa, can you hold her? You, she might find safe.”

“ _дa_.” The Heavy walked up and held his hands out to her, palms up. “Can touch?”

The Cook dug her fingers into the padding on the exam table and shook her head slowly. After a moment, she found her voice. “Just… do it.”

"Is okay, _девочка_ ,” the Heavy said, gently. “I will be here if you need me.”

" _Liebling_ , if one of us does not hold you, you must be very still.” _Will this never stop affecting me_ , the Medic thought, irritation stinging him. _Will I ever get to the point where I don’t hurt when they look at me like that?_ For a moment, he wanted her to disappear. _That look,_ he thought, and his memories surged up again. “The guards,” the Heavy whispered, blindfolded, blood pooling under his knees. “They paid. They all paid.” In his memory, the Heavy howled, everything human stripped from his voice. Again and again he howled, the sound…

The Medic shook his head. _I can’t heal this_ , he thought, despairing. _Liebling_ , he begged silently, _I can’t make what happened disappear. Forgive me. I can’t give it back to you_. He looked over at the Heavy, who smiled once at him, sadly, then looked away.

The Engineer sighed. “Little girl, I can’t watch this. I can’t.” Rubbing his stubbled scalp, he left the room.

The Scout closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Nope. No, I’m good, I can do this. I wanna remember for tomorrow.”

“ _Vipere_ , I believe I will take our wild friend and have a drink.” The Sniper shrugged the Spy’s hand from his shoulder and kicked the doors open, stalking into the hallway. The Spy followed him.

“I’m sorry, _liebling_.” The Medic reached out with the tweezers and started to dig. She let the distant fog come back, muting the world around her as she retreated from it. When he looked up, the expression was gone from her face again. She was empty, moving when he pushed her, stopping where he positioned her.

His hands worked methodically, but behind them, inside, he died and kept working, doing what he could.

The Scout swallowed heavily. “Toots, I can make the pain and I can take the pain, but I can’t take fixing the pain. I’ll come see you later.” He walked out of the room slowly, leaving the Pyro, the Heavy and the Medic.

The Heavy pulled up a chair, watching the Medic’s face with knowing eyes. A moment later, the Pyro pulled up his own chair and sat quietly, watching the Medic dig spines and splinters out of her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Marilyn Manson, "Sweet Dreams"


	15. Chapter 15

The ceiling over her head was speckled with peeling paint, the red on the walls going abruptly to white and falling off in flakes. The morning light shone into all the bubbles and cracks, making the ceiling seem leprous. She had no idea how long she’d been looking at it, just that it was morning, and that there was a blank space where her dreams should have been. An occasional noise told her someone was in the room with her—she couldn’t make himself care who. Adrift, floating, the muted world was a comfort. Out of a strange, distant curiosity, she couldn’t stop herself from asking. “How long was I there?”

The Medic sighed, laying down the paperwork he’d been staring through with a rustle. _Shock_ , the clinical part of his mind said. _PTSD, perhaps_. _Voice faint, dissociative state likely. Probably short-term, given isolated exposure_. He’d kept up with medical journals, though they were more curiosity than useful given the technology they’d given him. “Not long,” he said. “A day or so.”

The Cook stayed staring at the ceiling, making patterns of the balding spots above her. A face. A dog. Some part of her was busy and she was content to let it stay busy as long as the rest of her floated. Poking out around the edges of that busy spot was something—she shied away from the thought. “Why are you still here?”

 _An edge in that_ , he thought. _Is it better that she stay dissociative or should I encourage her to talk?_ _It is not… the talking cure was young when I came here. I don’t have enough training_. The Medic pushed up his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, trying to soothe his headache. “One of us is staying for a time, _liebling_. And today, that person is me.”

She turned over with a screech, curling under the covers into a fetal ball. “I’ll be fine. They probably need you.” _Just go_ , she added silently. _Leave me alone and let me… I don’t know._ The beds were old-fashioned, a brass scrawl for a headboard and feather mattresses. _Where did he get these things?_ The base was one part technological magic and the rest run-down junk from the 1950s and 60s. _Just like the men on it_ , she thought. _We’re all relics, or I will be, if I stay here. Do they think about it, about being adrift in time while the rest of the world moves on_?

He clicked his tongue, capping his pen and restlessly twirling it between his fingers. “They are managing quite well without me. RED will be pleased, I think, with the totals at the end of the day.”

Her voice was dull. “I want to be out there.” _Don’t leave me here_ , she thought, panic starting to push its way past the blank spot. _Don’t leave me here doing nothing_.

“Let us wait until the swelling has gone down, and the Sniper will be glad to help you.” _The edges_ , he thought. _Have your taste from the edges, so you lose your hunger for it_. The Medic felt all of his ninety-seven years, every one of them pulling him down— _please_ , he begged her silently. _Please be sickened by it. Please be sickened by killing_. _Do not make me watch you learn what you cannot unlearn_.

She flexed her ankles, too stiff to flex her feet, and looked down at the gauze criss-crossing her ankles. _He administered something for the pain_ , she thought. _He has to have administered something. This should probably hurt more._ “I want the BLU soldier,” she said absently, looking at the bandages. “I’m going to kill him.”

The Medic laughed, a short bark of sound that held little of a man and less of humor. “ _Liebling_ , you will have to fight the Sniper for him.” _So that’s the one_ , he thought. _I would have guessed the Spy from the way she disappeared._ He put the pen down and folded his hands over it, safe for the moment behind fifty years of self-control. _We will make him pay, liebling. Let us make him pay for you. Keep that part of yourself which is still innocent._

“I don’t care. I want him. Over and over. I want to kill him until I get tired of it.” She made a fist in the blanket, the edge back in her voice. “I want to make him suffer,” she hissed.

The Medic sighed and winced. It was on her face: the intent, the will, the desire. _But do you, libeling_ , he asked silently. _Do you have the will to see it all the way thought, to see him die? Will you be able to live with your memories?_ In his mind, he raged at her. _Do you not see what it has cost us?_   

The Cook turned her head to look at him. The Medic looked at her with a soft, slightly sad smile and opened his hands raising them in an age-old gesture of conciliation, then folded them back gently in front of him on the dark wood of the desk. He said nothing, but she could see it on his face—doubt. He was going to push her aside. They all were. They were going to take revenge from her as if she were a child with a dangerous toy. _It’s my revenge_ , she thought, rage wrapping its fingers around her and boiling her alive. _Mine. I will not be treated like a child, will not stand aside and let the men fix it for me. Not now. Not ever._ “That file wasn’t thorough enough,” she said, her voice rusty as a saw blade, “if you don’t know what I can do.”

There was a faint ache in his chest. He rubbed at it absently. _Psychosomatic_ , he thought. _Some part of me grieves._ Her face was red, eyes bloodshot and glaring at him.  _She has the right to her outrage, and rage is to be expected. But kinder, you do not understand regret._

That twinge again—he pressed the heel of his hand to his chest. _You will as you go_. _We all do_. The Medic smiled once, bitterly. “I only know what you’ve been arrested for. I think you should talk to the Heavy.” _Forgive me, Mischa_ , he thought, the twinge becoming a flower of fire that stole his breath. _Forgive me for this_. _We are all patchwork men, slapped together over our own scars and ticking on without the comfort of death_. _And I ask you to go into the most dangerous of places out of mercy_.

For a moment, the Medic wished, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in decades, that there was something to which he could plead in prayer. _A foolish wish_ , he castigated himself. _You left god behind in the camps, Klaus. Your imagination won’t comfort you or take the burden from Mischa or this girl_.

“Why,” she said, suspiciously. “What does Mischa have to do with it?”

“ _Liebling_ , Mischa knows more about the….” He let the sentence taper away, staring beyond her at the reflective glass door of a cabinet. She wouldn’t thank him for naming it, and no matter her rage, she could still shatter. “You will have to ask him.”

The Medic opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a deck of cards. “ _Kätzchen_ , tell me: are you familiar with many card games? Perhaps poker?”

The Cook pulled herself up on the bed, squinting at him under the surgery lights. “Yeah. I could play.”

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

That evening, the Spy took over the kitchen without complaint or comment, efficiently making something with noodles that no one else could identify—it reminded the Cook of Vietnamese food, but nothing she’d ever eaten before.

The Medic carried the Cook in when the Spy rapped once on the surgery door, sitting her at the table over her protests that she could walk just fine. _At least_ , he thought, _she feels good enough to complain_. He tactfully refrained from commenting that her feet were purple and twice their size, something she had trampled getting away from the BLU base proving venomous. She still had a tremor as well, he noted, the cards going awry as she tried to organize them in a fan.

The table was silent but for the clank and clatter of bodies seeking fuel, the usual teasing patter dwindled to grunts. She looked around and wilted, embarrassed. _I made things worse somehow._ The thought was quickly followed by a flutter of fear. _Will this mean they ignore me? Am I alone again?_

No one would meet her eyes as she looked down the table. They’d showered. The table was clean but for the food. The kitchen was clean. _I’m being erased_ , she thought, panic thudding through her with her pulse. _I’m invisible_. She dropped her fork with a clatter, staring down into her plate and missing the quick look of concern passing around the table. _No one wants me. No one wants to talk to me_. Shame warred with panic, and her shoulders inched up, hands loose and empty on the table. _I’m ruined. They think I’m ruined._

They looked at her staring, sightless, through the table. The Soldier opened his mouth to speak and the Medic made a cutting motion in the air, shaking his head. The Soldier pleaded with him silently, then sighed under the Medic’s glare and looked away. As the mercenaries started to clear the table, the Medic reached out and touched the Heavy’s arm.

“Mischa, the _Kätzchen_ needs to talk to someone. Would you?”

For a tense second, the Heavy stared at the Medic. The strain on the Medic’s face—eyes dark and sleepless in their sockets, fine lines deepening by eyes and lips— _what you ask_ , the Heavy thought, anguish liming him in fire. _You know what you ask, what it will do to me, and you ask me anyway_. He watched the Medic’s eyes close, watched him grapple with the refusal the Heavy knew was written across his features. The Medic’s eyes opened, the look in them lancing through the Heavy like a bullet. _I have not seen that look_ , the Heavy thought, _since we met. Damn the girl_. He shrugged the Medic’s hand from his forearm, pushing him away.

The Medic’s lips moved, something that wasn’t a whisper, and he let his hand fall. _The girl is still staring through the table_ , the Heavy thought. _She is like a rock thrown through a window_ , _and she does not know it_. He watched her for a moment longer, the thousand-yard stare and the thin fragility of her skin. _She does not know anything right now_. His shoulders hunched, habit he had learned to make a large man less frightening, responding by instinct to his lover’s pain. The Medic stood, guilt in every line of his body, and turned to leave. The Heavy reached out, squeezing his lover’s arm gently. _For you_ , he thought. _Before anything else, for you_.

The Heavy’s face softened. “Very well, Doctor.” He turned to the Cook, his face grave. “Little one, may we talk?”

His voice was slow to enter her head, and she turned to look at him with the slow movements of a dreamer. “Why should we,” she said. Her eyes rolled around the room, now empty of everyone but herself, the Medic and the Heavy. “What do we have to say?” Her thoughts were birds, wings clapping as they battered themselves against the inside of her skull.

The Heavy took a sharp breath, fighting the urge to simply walk away. _For what I am about to do_ , he thought, fighting the defensive rage that made him want to strangle her, _you should be grateful_. His lover flinched and the Heavy stifled his anger. _She does not know, and she is full of her own pain right now_. He thought about his sisters with a flash of old grief, and gentled his voice. “For this, little one, you will want to talk. May I pick you up?”

The Cook looked up at him, lips pressing together, and stood using the table. _I will not_ , she thought. _I will not be treated like a bad child_. Her knees buckled immediately, and the Medic reached for her without thinking of it. The Heavy growled at him. “Out.”

The Medic left, casting a single worried look over his shoulder and closing the door behind him with a quiet snick. She clenched her jaw and pushed up again on the chair. The Heavy let her pull herself to sitting before simply scooping her up. The Cook stared at him, the same angry jut to her jaw, but said nothing.

 _Damn you_ , she thought. _Goddamn all of you and me too_. _Goddamn you for seeing me this way, for simply picking me up as if I were helpless_. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked heavily.

He sighed and pushed the door open, carrying her to the living room. The Pyro sat, elbows on his knees, watching the fire dance in the fire place. “Pyro,” the Heavy said. “Leave.”

The Pyro looked up, then sighed and got up. “Does the Doctor need me to go?”

“For this? _дa_.”

The Heavy put the Cook on the couch and sat down next to her. The Pyro turned and walked out, flicking a lighter and mumbling. The Heavy watched him go, squaring his shoulders. The muscles of his jaw rippled, catching the red light of the fire. She watched him, sniffing occasionally at the tears running from her eyes and nose. _You wanted to talk_ , she thought spitefully. _Fine. You talk_.

It took him several minutes of silence to master his emotions. In the silence, the fire crackled and popped. _Green wood,_  he thought. _The Pyro should have let it dry out longer_. He turned to face her, looking at the wary, angry tension in her face. “Little one, the Doctor has told you I cannot go back to the Ukraine. He has not told you why, yes?”

She looked down at the arm of the couch beside her. There was a hole in the brown tweed, haloed in loose threads and the dark yellow foam of stuffing. She plucked at the threads before answering carefully. “No, he hasn’t.”

He searched for words. _How does one_ —he stopped the thought and started again. _The word they use is gay. How does one say this thing? She knows how I feel about Klaus. Where should I start?_ “You know I am gay?”

“Yeah, I know.” She slowly picked the hole in the couch wider, digging at the wooden frame beneath the padding.

“Do you know, _девочка_ , what they do in Ukraine to men like me?”

“I know it’s probably not good.” The hole was the size of a dime, the wood underneath still pale. She hooked her finger and ripped a strip of padding free.

 _Not good_ , he thought, disbelief making him dizzy for a moment. _Such little words_. There were still scars on his arms from the rocks boys had thrown at him when he was a child. Fifty years later and still visible, respawn giving them back to him every day, giving him back the calluses from the labor camp and the whip scars. _Fifty years_ , he thought, _and what is not given back to me by respawn is given back to me when I close my eyes_. _Twenty-eight guards. Bodies hanging on the barbed wire that we dared not bury, staring accusingly at us as we worked ourselves to death. That is not the worst of it. The worst_ —memory vomited up the guards, hands on his body and the barrel of a rifle in his mouth—he shook himself hard, moving the couch back with the squeal of wood against concrete. _But it is merely not good. Yes, девочка, it is not good._ The Heavy cleared his throat, blinking for a moment. “Do you know what they do when they can see it in a young man?”

There was something thick in his voice. She looked over and straightened on the couch. Agony, raw and terrifying, poured from him, settling in the prominent bones of his skull. _Hell_ , she thought. _That man has looked into hell, is looking into it again for me_. Her mouth worked silently— _no. Don’t_. _Don’t go there_. Her heart was leaden, beating against itself.

 _Could you have lived with it_ , he thought, eyes glassily reflecting the fire. _Have you ever lived with the knowledge that no one cares if you live or die? What would you have done, девочка?_ Once started, his memory took on a life of its own—he stared through the fire and time as his mouth moved, voice just audible. “They say it is simply what you deserve.”

Her breath caught. “No,” she said, her voice faint. “No, please.”

“They say, _девочка_ , that if you will act a woman, you will be a woman. And the worst part… the worst part….” The Heavy sunk his head into his hands, fingers pressing dents into his skull.

“No,” she whispered. “Please. Please.” Memories were unfolding like carnivorous flowers inside her skull, the emptiness gone. “No, I don’t want to remember.”

“ _девочка_ ,” he said distantly. “You have seen me with the Doctor. What do you think they make of men like me?”

She went rigid. The BLU soldier was smirking at her through the bars of the cage. Blood rushed past her ears, making a sound like the wind, babbling: _he wants what he wants what he will eat me up_. Beyond him, another figure moved in the darkness—her fingers sank into the old cloth of the couch, the fingers of her right hand punching cleanly through the cloth with ripping sound. _A sound a sound a rip. Echoes echoing no I don’t want to remember_.

The Heavy turned his head slowly, waking from his nightmares. The woman sitting beside him on the couch had her mouth open, sound pouring from it: panting, ragged, high pitched sounds that filled the room, an animal with its leg in a trap pulling, trying to pull free. He sat for a moment, pulling himself free. The space between them was viscous.

 _My memories are old_ , he thought, _the path familiar. I should have known not to bring her along while hers were so fresh_. The Heavy reached over and pried her hands from the couch, then picked her up, cuddling her to his chest. _She is so small. Look at her. Like a child, so small. I am so sorry, девочка. I should have shown mercy_. He closed his eyes. Mercy. The word echoed.

The Heavy shifted her weight in his arms and started to rock gently as the sounds slowed, humming tunelessly. “Shhh, little one. Shhhh. We have killed him and we will keep killing him.”

She crumpled in his arms and he kept humming, waiting for her to come back, for her breathing to slow. After a time, she looked up at him. He smiled, a frail little thing, and she smiled back with the same, fragile expression of loneliness. “ _мышка_ ,” he said gently, the name coming to him as he looked at her wide, dark eyes, “there is a thing I must say. I wish someone had said it to me. Can you hear me?”

The Cook ground her face into his chest and murmured, “I am here.”

“Yes, _мышка_ , you are. You are here now.” He shifted, pushing her up until she gave up trying to hide in his chest and looked at him. “You must know that it is their sickness that they try to give you. You will have a time where you are wild, or you are cold, or you are distant like the stars, but it will fade because it is their sickness and not yours. It is not your sickness.”

 _But you will think it is your sickness for a time_ , he thought. _And I will remind you it is not, because no one reminded me_. _I am so sorry, мышка._

She whimpered and burst into tears. The Heavy went back to rocking gently. “Crying is good,” he said, trying to tell her with his tone what he could not with his words. “I wish I were better at crying. The Doctor has many times to help me cry.” The Heavy went back to his tuneless humming, staring at the fire with his chin resting on her head.

 _Klaus_ , he thought, the edge of his lover’s boots taking shape in his mind. _Where I was shown mercy, I could give it_. _Where you showed me mercy, I have learned mercy_. _Many nights_ …. He let the thought trail off, rocking her and thinking of the Medic’s arms around him. After some time, she ran out of tears and simply sat there, shaking. The Heavy kept humming, gently rocking, and they both stared into the fire as it guttered and went out.

“ _мышка_ ,” he said, looking away from the darkening embers, “I think you should sleep.” His legs and arms had gone to sleep some time ago, and as the room cooled, his muscles had started to cramp where they weren’t numb.

She pressed her ear to his chest to hear his voice rumbling out of it. “I don’t want to be alone.”

The Heavy looked down, frowning. “I sleep with the Doctor.” _Please. I am tired and I must let myself rest. I am not_ , he thought, _your doll to clutch against nightmares_. _I have my own_.

“I don’t care. I just don’t want to be alone.”

She had that look on her face again—lost and small. The Heavy sighed. _Once_ , he thought. _Just this time, because I am a clumsy fool_. “Let us ask him.”

The Heavy scooped the Cook up in his arms and walked to the surgery, the halls empty and echoing with the sound of his footsteps. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging like a small child. He winced and tried not to let his annoyance show. He pushed through the surgery doors, turning to take the door on his shoulder.

“Is she….” The Medic stood up, knocking a clipboard off his desk.

“ _мышка_ ,” the Heavy said, shortly, “ask him.”

She looked at the Medic, her face still pale and reddened by crying. “I don’t want to sleep alone. Can I sleep with him?”

“I will be sleeping with the Doctor.” The Heavy looked down at her again, the tension on his face making his eyebrows a heavy line across his face. The Medic eyed at them both and took a breath to speak but she interrupted him.

“Can I sleep with you both?”

The Medic blinked, and the Cook was suddenly reminded of his age. “Yes, I suppose the bed is large enough. It cannot be a habit, _liebling_. This is my time with Mischa.”

She looked at them both. _Oh_ , she thought, embarrassed. _Oh, I’m intruding_. _I’m being so selfish._ She blushed heavily, looking up at the tense Heavy. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I just… I’ll go to my room. Just put me down.”

The Heavy made an exasperated noise. _And now_ , he thought, irritated. _Now she realizes what she’s asking_. His arms tightened. “Do not be a fool, _мышка_. If you ask for something, you should take it. And you cannot walk on those feet, yet.”

The Medic bit his lower lip, trying not to smile. As usual, Mischa had given voice to his thoughts. _For Mischa_ , he thought affection and pride warming his expression, _this has been incredibly generous. To give up his privacy.… He hates things to keep changing_. “No, _liebling_ , do not be sorry. Not right now. Mischa, take her back and I will follow when I finish the paperwork.”

The Heavy pushed through a set of doors in the back of the surgery, and put the Cook down on the huge bed where she sat like a splash of red paint against the dark green pine of the comforter. “We do not sleep in clothing, but will wear something tonight.”

The Cook looked up at him in mute desperation. “I’m sorry, Heavy. I’m sorry, I didn’t think I would make a problem. I don’t want to make a problem.”

 _Now you don’t want to make a problem_ , the Heavy thought darkly.“Once,” he said drily and with careful emphasis, “is not problem.”

He turned and rummaged in a chest of drawers, emerging with two striped sets of pajama bottoms, laying one on the other side of the bed. “Will be right back.”

The Heavy emerged, drawing the string on the pajamas tight and tying a bow. “All right, _мышка_ , you will take edge and I will take middle. The Doctor is not… he needs his space.” _And I_ , the Heavy thought, _need to touch him_ . He looked at her cringing on the bed with resignation. _Should make the best of it. She is certainly small enough to be my doll but would not stop nightmares._

He lay down with a sigh and pulled her against him, tugging firmly on her stiff body until she settled into the curve of his. “Relax, _мышка_.” _Do not keep me awake_ , he added. _I cannot sleep with you lying in the bed like a block of ice_.

She let him pull her into the line of his body, her head barely reaching his collarbone as he lay behind her. The Heavy looked down. She was staring into the wall. As she sensed him looking at her, her eyes rolled over nervously and she gave him a tenuous smile. He sighed. “ _мышка_ , you will keep us both awake. What do you need to sleep?”

That smile again, watery and frail. The Heavy made a face. “Then talk, if you must.”

“I don’t know what else to say other than to apologize.”

He grunted. “There is only so much, _мышка_ , I can take before I become annoyed.”

“I….” she shifted against him, anxious. “I keep trying to think of something soothing to say, but I can’t think of anything.”

He growled, low in his throat, and put a hand over her mouth. She rolled her eyes up at him. The Heavy began to sing quietly, one of the few lullabies he remembered. His voice was gravelly, breaking occasionally. 

"Ой ходить сон, коло вікон.  
А дрімота коло плота.  
Питається сон дрімоти:  
"Де ж ми будем ночувати?”

She went still, listening to the sound of his voice, and he moved his hand. In the outer room, the Medic sat up quickly, turning toward the sound of the Heavy singing. He pushed the chair away quietly and crept across the room to stand by the inner doors. 

"Де хатонька теплесенька,  
Де дитина малесенька,  
Туди підем ночувати,  
І дитинку колисати."

The Medic leaned against the wall, flattening a hand on it with his eyes closed. _He never sings_ , he thought. _Alexi never sings_. 

"Там ми будем спочивати,  
І дитинку присипляти:  
Спати, спати, соколятко,  
Спати, спати, голуб'ятко."

The Heavy let his voice wind down. Her breathing had slowed as he sang. He looked down—not asleep, but not icy. It was enough. He settled down behind her and closed his eyes.

The Medic turned slowly against the wall with a whisper of cotton, eyes still closed, overcome. _I do not deserve you_ , he thought. _Alexi, I have always and ever been a better man since I met you_. The paperwork waited for him on the desk when he opened his eyes. He stared at it for a moment. _Tomorrow_ , he thought. _It can wait. Everything can wait_.

He let himself silently into the inner room and changed quickly. With a sigh, he settled into the curve of his lover’s back, laying a kiss on his spine. _If we had forever_ , he said silently, _it would not be enough_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Soundtrack: Tricky, "Wash My Soul"


	16. Chapter 16

When she woke, the Heavy was curled around the Medic. Stretching her feet in the warm state between sleep and waking, she found the swelling gone. The broad plane of the Heavy’s back was turned to her, the faint light from the small window picking long raised scars out against his pale skin. She looked at them, following them as they disappeared into the blankets, at the flat scars across one shoulder and a pattern of dimpled scars scattered all over his body. Her hand raised involuntarily, looking at the scars, and she put it down very slowly, her breath equally careful— _nothing_ , she thought. _Nothing I’ve experienced. Nothing I’ve ever experienced compares to that_. _I have been so lucky_. She slid out of the bed and covered him gently.

Before leaving the room, she paused at the foot of the bed to look at them. They faced each other, faces loose in sleep. The Heavy laid compressed, arm tucked under his head and the other wrapped tightly around himself. The Medic lay with a hand out, seemingly seeking the Heavy even as he slept. As she watched, the Medic’s hand flexed and covered the distance between them, seeking and finding the arm the Heavy had wrapped around himself. The Heavy made a soft sound in his sleep, the arm loosening.

Her eyes prickled again. _I’m a watering pot_ , she thought, mocking herself but following the line of their bodies one more time before slowly pushing the doors open and leaving the surgery.

She unwrapped her feet, looking at the smooth, new skin, and took a quick shower. The early hour and what she’d seen made her crave the silence, for contemplation and simply because she had nothing she felt like saying. The Spy was still up when she entered the kitchen, his ordinarily neat suit rumpled, and his shirt hanging crookedly from his shoulders. He was unshaven, and the bags beneath his eyes were bluish. He turned, looking at her, and sighed.

She cleared her throat and spoke quietly. “Do you want coffee?”

He knocked the ash from his cigarette into the sink. “Yes, _Vipere_ ,” he said, voice tired. “I think that would be well.”

She put a kettle on the stove and searched for the beans, finding them across the kitchen from their normal storage spot—someone had moved them. She grabbed the beans and loaded the grinder, with a surge of annoyance. After she ground the beans, she turned, finding him searching her face, eyes ticking back and forth across it. “Are you well, _Vipere_?”

 _He stayed up all night_ , she thought. _And he’s worried about something_. “I might be.” Relief openly washed over his face. _He’s actually worried about me_ , she thought, surprised. “I want to kill him, she said. “I want to kill all of them.”

He gave her a half-smile. “I understand.” _More than you know, Vipere_ , he thought. _More than you know_. He put his elbows on the counter and leaned back on them, squinting at her through the smoke trail wafting up next to his face. _You might be well is better than I expected_. “I would want to do the same.”

“And then I want…” Her mouth worked, brimming with contradictory desires, things that made no sense to her: lust, the desire to be held, the desire to be close and safe. She wanted to see the BLU soldier cry, to choke the life from him herself. She wanted to know that no one could scare her again. She wanted to fuck because she could, because she chose to fuck.

The Spy’s free hand rubbed the skin between his eyebrows, a vicious headache stabbing at his eyes. “To wash him from you,” he muttered. _I should have known it would hit her like this_. _Some of them run, some of them hide, some of them stuff, and some people want to fuck back_. _Of course, wanting is not doing or doing well._ He opened his eyes, seeing the surprise on her face, and grimaced with annoyance. “What, _Vipere_ , did you think that rape is a tool of war to be used on just women?”

She looked him up and down, noticing the fine tremor in the fingers which held the cigarette. “No, I know better.” _It is just wall-to-wall bad shit around here_ , she thought. _Jesus_.

The Spy sighed. “On your own time, _Vipere_. All things must happen on their own time. I will keep the Sniper busy. He does not understand, and he is very angry. He wants to erase the BLU soldier from you. Solly has been… I have never seen so much blood on him. As for the Demo…” He ran out of words, one hand circling in the air aimlessly.

The Cook looked at him, measuring, and gave a slow nod. She pushed the plunger on the French press down, watching the grounds fight her as the filter forced them down.

“ _Vipere_ , I cannot occupy our Sniper for too long. He will, eventually, want to come to you in his own way. I do not know how you will take it. I will try my hardest.” The Spy stubbed his cigarette out in the sink and turned on the water, washing the mess down the drain.

“I understand.” She poured them both a cup and they stood, quietly drinking, for some time.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

For the next four days, the Spy sat between the Sniper and Cook, skillfully redirecting conversations away from her. She smiled, nodded, and said very little during meal times, going to bed early from the effort of smiling, nodding, and trying to make conversation. The effort of showering dizzied her, the effort of dressing more so, and by the time the dinner dishes had been washed she was teetering on collapse. Words seemed impossibly difficult.

She couldn’t figure out what to say to them all.

The Spy spent four days telling jokes that were filthy beyond belief whenever the conversation lulled—she had not realized there were that many jokes about country girls and barnyard animals, nor had she realized that there were that many novelty sex acts. When she’d been able to concentrate enough to follow the conversation, she’d gotten an education she hadn’t known existed. _My god_ , she thought on the third day. _Even the guy who used to joke about fucking the poultry before we cooked it wasn’t this perverse_. The Spy was midway through a description of something that, if she’d only seen the gestures, she would have assumed was a description of stuffing a turkey, squinting through his fifth cigarette at dinner. The act he was describing might as well have been stuffing a turkey, assuming one wished the turkey to resemble something H.P. Lovecraft might have had nightmares about.

 _He’s been smoking at dinner_ , she realized, staring at him. _He wasn’t smoking at dinner before_. She looked around the table. Haggard, angry men looked back. _I don’t know what to say about that, either_.

On the fifth day, the Sniper came in before the siren that ended the day’s battle. He stood in the doorway, watching her stir a pot, twitching at every sound. When he cleared his throat to let her know he was standing behind her, she jumped, flinging a spoon full of soup across the back of the stove. She stared at him, wild-eyed for a moment. _Come on_ , he thought, worry mixing with irritation. _Recognize me_.

“I should have been expecting this,” she said quietly. “I still don’t know what to say to anyone.” She looked over at the long streak of soup on the stove behind her and grunted. “Fuck. I just cleaned that.”

He set his rifle down against the counter and covered the distance between them in a few, long-legged strides. “Are you avoiding me? Are you avoiding all of us?” She edged back and he growled, advancing again. “Tell me what we did.”

The Cook put down the spoon and sighed, gripping the edge of the cabinet. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” He was vibrating with tension, body straining to cover the last inch between them and held back by— _by what_ , she thought. _It’s not like I could do anything about it_. _No, I could. I could do something, I just don’t know what_.

He looked down at her face, at the weariness on it, the resignation, the fine hairs escaping her bun and sweat on the collar of her shirt. “Don’t avoid me. Just… please don’t. Let me do something.” _Come back_ , he pleaded silently. _We can see you sitting there and no one knows what to say. Sneak babbles into the silence and we all sit there like wankers. No one knows how to fix it and make you happy_.

“I won’t avoid anyone. I’m not avoiding anyone.” _I’m stuck_ , she thought. _That’s what this is. I’m frozen and I don’t want to be frozen_.

He watched anger start to heat her face. _Good_ , he shouted at her silently _. Get angry. Get something, just stop drifting_. The Sniper pushed up his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. “Give me a chance. Give us a chance to do something.”

She crossed her arms, glaring up at him. “It’s not about you, Sniper. It’s not about any of you.”

 _You want to be angry, little bird_ , he thought. _Be angry at me. Be angry at all of us. Just do something_. “I know,” he said, eyes restlessly roving her face. “Sneak won’t shut up about it, won’t stop telling me to let you have your space. I have. I don’t like this. You need to do something. We need to do—”

She interrupted him, a frisson of recognition travelling up her spine. _I did want to do something_ , she thought. “I want to kill him myself.”

 _Oh thank Christ_ —the Sniper wanted to pick her up and roar with relief— _I understand this_ , he thought. _I can help with this_. He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Wanna get the wanker by rifle or by knife?”

“Both. I just want to—” Her hands flexed in midair, strangling an invisible opponent. _I want to finally do something about it_ , she thought. _I want to see him die, to stop waking up terrified that he’s in my room_. The malaise lifted, and she realized she was genuinely excited. The Sniper was grinning broadly at her, and she realized she was grinning back.

 _Sneak, goddamn it_ , he thought, _we should have suggested this earlier_. “I’ve been doing it all week. It’s really satisfying. Come out with me tomorrow. I’ll have to help you, but it’ll be fun.” The Sniper paused, cautious. “I’ve never killed a man with a sheila. Have you ever…”

“No, but I’ll learn.” She smiled viciously at him. “And I’ll practice until I get it right.”

 _Oh you beautiful, beautiful Birdie_ —he had to stop himself from grabbing her face and kissing her dizzy. _Just got her moving, don’t shock her back_. “Let’s gut the wanker together.” His fingers hovered over hers, and she reached out to capture them.

“Let’s.”

 **< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>** 

The next morning, the Sniper woke her early, calling her softly from the door to her room. When she sat up, he saw the purple shadows under her eyes, the thin fragility of her skin, and knew that whatever dream he’d interrupted was best not discussed. He placed the butt of the rifle against the floor, holding it loosely by the barrel, and leaned against the door frame, waiting for her.

He watched her pull on a heavy shirt, layering her clothes to hide every inch of skin possible. The Sniper decided to let her find out the hard way that the room he was using as a nest would be stiflingly hot—she seemed to need to hide, and could just shed a layer if she got sweaty. When she had covered herself from head to toe, she straightened, finally able to stand.

He extended a hand, beckoning, and re-shouldered his rifle. Her hand was clammy and limp in his. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go find a good spot.” The Sniper led her out onto the field, to one of the ramshackle wooden buildings. Together, they climbed the stairs, and crawled into a tight space on the top floor with a small slit overlooking the surrounding area, where he had cut part of the cover out of a vent.

“Birdie, they may kill us, but we’ll take some with us.” The Sniper turned to her, searching her face. “You still want to do this?”

She made eye-contact for the answer, her whole body finally stable and still. “Yes.”

The Sniper unrolled a thin foam pad, putting a blanket over it, and sank down on his stomach. “Then come lay down.”

She lowered herself slowly, gingerly, a few inches from him and waited.

The Sniper scooted over, laying shoulder to shoulder with her. “Put the butt against your shoulder, right there in the hollow.” He pushed the rifle over on its tripod. “Don’t put your eye right up on the scope, leave a few inches.”

The Cook reached out carefully for the rifle, her fingers hesitant on the big gun.

He put a hand on her back and she flinched, then let him pet her back. “You have to relax. Solly said he was taking you shooting. He said you can hit a can?”

“Yeah,” she said, squirming around the rifle butt to get it in the hollow of her shoulder.

“Just like that. Track anyone you want, but don’t tense up. And one shot and stop, don’t keep pulling the trigger. This ain’t a competition for kills—we’re providing tactical support, keeping the rest of RED from getting their asses blown off.” She started to tense again, her back becoming hard under his fingers. “No, don’t tense up, relax.” The hand on her back rubbed gentle circles. “Relax, Birdie.”

He rubbed quietly until he could feel her start to loosen again.

“When you’re ready to shoot, Birdie, take a breath and hold it as you pull. We’ll trade off shots. It’s going to kick like a bitch, so keep it in the groove on your shoulder and don’t get too close to the scope.”

She smiled tentatively at him, looking away from the scope, and noticed a neat pile of empty jars in the corner. “What’s with all the jars?”

The Sniper shifted uncomfortably. “I’m stuck up here all day unless they find me, and that’s less likely if I’m not moving. Gotta piss in something.” He smiled. “And I use the full jars ever so often to check for the BLU spy.”

“Are you serious?” He saw the beginnings of a smile on her lips.

“Yep. I did you a favor and washed up a bit in here. I didn’t think you wanted to smell it.”

“Shit. So what do I do if I have to pee?”

The Sniper couldn’t help himself, even if he had tried. “Get good at aiming.”

The Cook looked at him and finally laughed, short and soundless, and he smiled.

They both turned back to the field as the opening siren wailed. He let her have the gun first, keeping his hand on her back to keep rubbing those same, gentle circles. “We’ll trade off, Birdie. Shot for shot.”

Her first shot went wild and they both ducked flat, laying with their heads pressed against the pad, and waited to see if anyone found them. Thirty seconds of distant mayhem ensued as he stared at her, watching the tension in her face. _She can pull the trigger_ , he thought, watching a thin line of sweat roll down her face. _But what happens when she shoots someone? Can you, Birdie? Can you do it?_

His first shot nailed the BLU Pyro coming out of their base. He opened a small utility knife and made a divot in the wall beside them. She watched him, noticing that the wall was full of tiny divots.

“How many are there?”

“Thirty-seven.” The Sniper cleared his throat. “They ain’t found this one yet.” He handed the rifle off and went back to rubbing circles, watching her try to line up a target. She flinched several times, but didn’t quite pull the trigger. _Don’t over-think it_ , he urged her silently. _Those are targets. Funny little men doing things far away that go boom when you pull_. The Sniper kept rubbing circles, watching her flinch and decide, then track again. After a few minutes, she looked up at him, her face conflicted.

“Don’t over think it,” he said. “We all have respawn, so nothing is permanent. Think of them like bottles on the wall. You can always get another bottle.” _There is always_ , he added silently, _another target. Get any two people on the earth in contact with one another and there’ll be work for one of us_.

She went back to the scope and he kept rubbing, patient as only a hunter can be and watching her track and decide. She was starting to get frustrated. He could feel it in the tightening muscles of her back. _Maybe_ , he thought with a frown of concentration, _she needs to start with revenge?_

The Sniper leaned down, whispering just above her ear. “You can make him pay, Birdie. You can make them all pay.”

Her finger twitched, the shot hitting the BLU heavy in the leg and nearly tearing it off. There was a distant bellow of agony and he beamed at her. _Not a headshot, Birdie,_ he thought joyfully, _but you crossed the line. You’re one of us, lady-love._ He shivered once, half-hard, and looked down at her with hooded eyes.

 _No_ , he thought. _Not yet. But soon._ He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to peel the ridiculously heavy clothing from her and slide himself into her as she lined up shots, killing, his body fitting into hers so that they were one person at the rifle. He wanted to balance on his elbows, buried inside her, his fingers covering hers on the trigger so he could feel her pull, so that he could feel the ecstatic joy of the kill echoing through both their bodies. _Do you feel like I do, Birdie_ , he asked silently. _Do you feel it?_

She lingered at the scope, watching the BLU heavy fall, and he let her. _Come on, Birdie. Don’t feel guilty, be excited_. When she looked up, there was a questioning shadow in her eyes and he smiled reassuringly. “Good one, Birdie! Let’s see their Medic glue that one back on.” The shadow was still there, and he looked down at her, face growing serious. “It’s just like bottles, I promise. He’ll be back out of respawn in a few minutes without a single scar from it.”

After a moment, she smiled—a tiny little thing, and troubled, but still a smile. _He’s proud of me_ , she thought. _Really proud of me_. He leaned forward slowly and pressed a kiss to her scalp, a single light kiss that felt heavy somehow. Dense. _I did it_. _Well, some of it. I still have to find the Soldier_.

When she put the gun back to her shoulder, he laughed. “No, it’s my turn, Birdie. Save some for me.” He handed her the knife. “Make a notch on your side when you hit someone.”

The Sniper took the rifle and scanned the area through the scope. The BLU Medic was crouched over the Heavy, gun in hand, and received a large hole in his head for his pains. He motioned for the knife, and when she handed it to him, notched the wall again. “Wait a bit, Birdie. It’s easier to find us if we keep firing.”

They spent a few minutes staring out of the vent, watching their teammates kill and die. “See, Birdie,” he said. “They pop right back up. No permanent harm done.”

She watched the combat. The distance made it seem unreal, cartoonish: fountains of dirt, blood, and flesh. The desert sun flashed blindingly from knives, guns, rocket launchers, grenades, and hundreds of pounds of metal bent into killing shapes. It never ended—death was followed in a few minutes by reappearance, and the fighters took chances that seemed ridiculous. Solly, flying through the air, jumping off buildings to land on small figures in blue uniforms. The Pyro charging across the field, axe in hand, through a hail of grenades. The bullet jackets from the Heavy’s gun glittered like water, a moving stream around him. Up and down. In and out. It was dizzying.

When she turned her head, the Sniper was laying on his side, watching her closely with a small smile on his face. “This is our world, Birdie, and now you’re a part of it. What do you think?”

The Cook turned back to the combat. “It seems unreal.”

“It is,” he said. “We can’t die, really. I’m probably ruined for real contracts any more. Too used to being able to take risks.” _And there’s not a government on earth_ , he thought, _that still has identification for me. Pity_.

He pushed the barrel over. “All right, your turn.”

Her next shot was faster, hitting the BLU Demo as he stopped to reload. She looked over at the Sniper guiltily. “I was aiming at the soldier.”

The Sniper considered her face for a moment— _if you were less fragile_ , he thought, _we’d be celebrating this with you flat on your back and you wouldn’t have time to feel guilty. I’d have to gag you, but you’d be too busy to over think it_. “Took me a long time to get accurate, Birdie. It’ll come.”

He pulled the gun over and found the BLU Soldier ducking behind a building. The Sniper aimed at the other side of the building, waiting. “Come on, come on, wanker,” he muttered. “Got to come out some time.”

When the BLU Soldier ducked out of the building, the Sniper’s shot hit him in the hip, ripping a chunk of bone and skin from him in a wet spatter. The Sniper grinned, feral, and pushed the rifle at her. “Quick, by the little building on the right. Finish him off.”

She tracked, finding the BLU Soldier rolling on the ground, screaming soundlessly. She took a breath— _nightmares. Six days of nightmares_ —and squeezed, blowing his head across a five foot circle around his body. His cooling corpse disappeared. She took another breath. _I did it_ , she thought.

There was a gurgling noise beside her and she turned from the scope, confused. The blade slid into her back, twisting in her kidney. It burned like ice, like fire, her whole body screaming that something was wrong, wrong, must come out. She reached back and couldn’t grasp the knife. Someone grabbed her wrist, digging a thumb into the nerves on the edge of her wrist.

The BLU Spy sank down beside her, holding her hand companionably. “I told you I’d stab you one way or the other.”

She looked at him, the room already going bright, and he rolled her shoulder back to cup her breast, watching her face.

“You’ll go into shock in a second, but I wanted to be the one to pop your cherry. And here I was thinking I was just cleaning up the trash.” He looked over her to the body of the RED Sniper. “He’s not usually this easy to kill. You must be very distracting.”

He squeezed her breast, the pain muted by shock, and slowly traced his way up to her face. “Next time I catch you out here,” he said, his voice deepening, “I’ll incapacitate you and play with you for awhile, first.”

“Next time,” she gasped, “I’ll kill you back.”

He smiled as she fainted. 

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

She was standing in a small room. Her mouth tasted like pennies. Beside her, the Sniper took a deep breath. “Fuck, you get used to it, but it never stops being terrible.” He looked over at her. “Birdie?”

She looked over at him blankly.

“It’ll wear off.” He patted her on the shoulders awkwardly. “Just give it a second. Sneak usually lights a cigarette afterward because of the taste. He says it’s put him off steak tartare for life.”

The Pyro appeared next to them, standing and staring vacantly. After a few seconds, he shook himself like a wet dog and charged out of the room, axe in hand.

The Sniper watched him. “Some motherfucker is about to regret life. Py gets a little enthusiastic sometimes, and when he charges like that, somebody ends up burger meat.” He shook his head. “Shit, at least when I do my job, they usually die immediately, not screaming as they melt or hacked into mush.”

He turned back to the Cook. “You okay, Birdie?”

She kept staring at him with a vacant expression.

He shook her shoulders, gently. “You’re still alive. It takes a moment to convince your body you’re still there, but you’re still alive.”

She took a deep breath, personality flowing back into her eyes. “I fucking died. I really fucking died. I was dead.” The Cook looked down at herself. “And now I’m alive again.” She patted herself. “I can feel myself. But I was dead. I was really dead and nowhere.”

The Sniper smiled wryly at her. “Welcome back, Lazarus. It feels like it, but you didn’t quite die. You just… mostly died. Settles the afterlife question, don’t it?”

She ran her hands over her arms, staring at the small hairs, and he captured them in his. “I know,” the Sniper said. “And it’s a real pity that you can’t enjoy just being alive, but some wanker killed you.”

The Cook took a deep breath, red-faced with sudden rage. “I’m going to kill the little fucker.”

The Sniper smiled broadly, relieved. “That’s the spirit, Birdie! Welcome to the team.” He pulled a rifle out of a nearby box and handed it to her. “Ready to go out again?”

She took it, slinging it over her shoulder. “Fuck, yes. I’m going to blow that little shit to hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Marilyn Manson, "Killing Strangers"


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: a croaker is a doctor. A heid croaker is a head doctor (psychologist). A hound is someone doing time for sex crimes.

By the evening, she’d killed the BLU Soldier twice and died ten times, but hadn’t managed to catch the BLU Spy. Her only head shot had been an accident, the Sniper whispering advice in her ear and a chill running up her spine that jiggled her finger on the trigger. With each kill, he’d beamed at her, body yearning toward hers. He’d kept his hands to himself but for correcting her grip on the gun or passing the knife to let her notch the walls on his various nests. The walls were always heavily notched, and she found herself trying to count them. _Hundreds. Thousands. How many people has he killed_ , she wondered. _How many people before he came here?_

In the minutes before the closing klaxon rang out over the desert, she let him have the gun to watch him. His fingers lingered on hers, and she looked at his face. _He is…_ She didn’t have a word for the terrible hunger blazing in it, an incandescence that transcended lust as she’d ever seen it. _He is elemental_ , she finally thought, fingers loosening on the gun. He shuttered the expression quickly, taking the gun and turning toward the desert.

At the klaxon and the screeching of the crowd, she helped him pack the empty clips into his duffel bag, rolling up the foam mat and tucking it beside the clips. The language of his body was that of a man who was having a particularly good date—pride, possession, anticipation—he ranged ahead of her, pulling her along by the hand and beaming. The Sniper let go of her hand in the kitchen, planting a single kiss in the middle of it that ran through her like a shaft of ice and heat. She blinked up at him, shock freezing her, and he let her hand go with a fond grin.

The Cook fumbled her way through a simple macaroni and cheese recipe and plunked it on the table. She was exhausted, she realized. Really, genuinely tired. Her shoulders and back ached, muscles tight as the strings of a guitar and vibrating at the slightest sound. Something in her felt warped. Different. She didn’t know what it was. _No_ , she thought, _that’s not quite right. I don’t want to look at it yet_. _But his face. The look on his face_. _A terrible glory. Transcendent. And I joined him._ The blank spot was back again in her head. She didn’t fight it, concentrating on shoveling one bite after the other into her mouth and chewing mechanically.

The Sniper announced her kills to the table around a mouth full of the pasta.

The Medic—she could see the news hit him. The look her turned to her was haunted, pale and full of a grief that stripped him of flesh and the distance of his habitual composure. The Heavy looked at his lover and her, something flickering across his face. The stare he turned to her was cold, but had an odd respect in it, as if she had suddenly become a variable in his private calculations. He nodded once, eyes steady on hers and hand on his lover’s back. She nodded back. _He sees me now_ , she thought.

The Heavy’s fingers tightened on the Medic, on the private signs of distress that were telegraphing through his spine like the signal for a radio. _Like a rock through a window_ , he thought, grinding his teeth. _And still ignorant_. _If you break him, мышка_ , _I will destroy you down to your shallow little soul, and I will take every one of them down with me if I must._

The Spy looked at them both, noting the cold tension on the Heavy’s face, then spoke. “It merits a little celebration. I have just the right thing.” He pushed his chair from the table, the wooden legs scraping against the concrete, and left the room quickly. _She is still in shock_ , he thought. _Bête does not quite understand it, but he does not understand such soft feelings._ He fumbled with the keys in his pocket and pushed open the door to his room, stepping absently over the thin, grease-darkened tripwire strung across the doorway.

 _We cannot let her decide she feels guilty_ , he thought with a twinge of regret, opening his nightstand and poking through the contents, which clinked and rustled. _Bête, if you had been patient…_ He sighed. _But we must play the hand as it is dealt_.

The Spy pulled out a small baggie, eyeing the mint-colored pills in it. _They used to use this for therapy before they banned it in this godforsaken country_. _Let us hope that flooding her with pleasure will help us bring steel out of her, not shatter her entirely_. His fingers closed around the bag, the plastic stretching as his hand convulsed with frustration. _There is a process to this, Bête_. _We do not all come with the ability to kill easily_. After a moment of deliberation, the Spy grabbed two bottles from the crate beside his desk. _If you must hurry this up_ , he thought, _we have to keep her too busy for regret_. _Or_ —he read the labels with resignation. It was really too nice a vintage for this— _too drunk for it_.

When the Spy pushed open the door to the dining room, he had a bottle in either hand, a small baggie dangled around the neck of one of the bottles. He held both hands up, moving his wrists to make the baggie swing, to draw her eyes to the movement. “Your choice, _Vipere_.”

The Medic looked up, his lover’s hand still on his back, and saw the baggie. His eyes widened, pulling against the tight skin of his temples. “Do you—”

The Spy cut him off. “You have your methods and I have mine.”

 _Small green pills_. The Medic knew what the Spy was doing. He had no military service of his own, but knew enough to guess at the process of convincing someone to become a killer. _You’re cleaning the Sniper’s mess this time_ , he thought, his sarcasm taking on a hysteric chill. _Indicated in therapy, changing the mind by forcing it open_. _I knew you were a clever, amoral man, but the chances you’re taking..._ He stopped himself. _Maybe it’s an act of mercy. He knows what he’s doing, much more than the tier_.

The Medic looked over at the Cook, at the numbed expression on her face. _I can’t watch this_. He stood up abruptly and left the room, leaving his full plate untouched. The Heavy walked into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses, and followed him.

The Spy watched the Medic go with a faint sigh of relief. _Good_ , he thought _. If we have to do this, we can’t let you keep her questioning_.

The Cook watched the bag swinging, shining in the overhead light, the crinkle of plastic hypnotic. “What‘s in the bag?”

The Spy turned a well-practiced, seductive smile at her, his lips curving up into a promise. “MDMA.”

She blinked. “How did you get them? You can barely find the stuff for love or money anymore.”

“Favors.” He pulled a dull green tab from the bag. “Try one. You’ll like it.” The Spy paused. _There are things even I won’t do_ , he thought with a brief stab of anguish, _and this comes so close_. “ _Vipere_ , have you ever…” He let the words trail off.

“Yes, I have.” She was still watching the bag, fixated on the relief it would offer. The Spy closed the distance between them with the same practiced smile and put the bottles on the table beside her, leaning against it with a graceful slouch that pushed the plates aside.

“You know how to fix any serious problems.” The Spy made a gun with the fingers of his free hand and tapped it against his temple, still smiling. He turned his head, making a quick survey of the room. “Well, gentlemen, any other takers?”

The Scout shrugged, losing the pasta on his fork and stabbing another mouthful with a terse movement. “If you’re offering. It’s been awhile.”

Favors _._ The Demo snorted. _Yeh’re a dirty bastard, yeh sneaky fuck_. _If I’d have known what yeh were planning to do with it, I’d not have made it for yeh_. “I’ll take meh scrumpy.”

The Spy looked over at him, a quick flick of his eyes and the tiniest shake of his head. _Don’t interfere. Don’t make this harder_.

The Demo’s mouth flattened into a hard line, but he shrugged. _At least it’ll break the tension. The poor thing looks like she needs it_. He turned, pulling his flask from the vest he’d draped over the back of his chair and unscrewing it. The Spy was still looking at him, a question in his dark eyes, and the Demo answered him with a small salute. _Sometimes_ , he thought, _yeh just have ta get out of yer head_. The Spy sighed, relieved, and the Demo watched him over the flask at his lips. _Yeh’d better be a bloody good croaker_ , _yeh hound_.

“I…. shouldn’t.” The Soldier looked at the pills. “I’ve been odd, lately.” His eyes slid over to the Cook and away, the guilty expression on his face transparently miserable.

“Odd,” the Scout said with a cackle, spit and fragments of pasta flying across his plate. “Solly, you’ve had more brains on you than a surgeon.”

The Soldier glared at him. “I have been doing my duty.”

“You have been doin’ that duty with extreme prejudice, Solly. Live a little.” The Scout stood, leaning over the table, and grabbed one of the dark green bottles beside the Spy. The Sniper handed him a utility knife without comment, folding open the small, attached corkscrew. With a grunt of effort, the Scout screwed it into the bottle and pulled the cork out with a pop. He filled the Soldier’s glass. “Come on, tomorrow’s an off day.”

The Soldier looked down at the full glass, a pleading expression on his face. “I get weird sometimes.”

“Solly,” the Scout said with an uncharacteristically sardonic arch of his blonde eyebrows, “we’re all weird and it ain’t going to get any less weird if you drink. Shit, if something doesn’t break the tension around here, weird is gonna be the least of our problems.” _Come on, you crazy bastard_ , he added in the silence of his mind. _Get it out of your system before this hothouse turns real sour. If I gotta duck any more of your rockets, I’mma do something about it._

The Soldier straightened in his chair and reached for the glass. “To America!” He didn’t wait for confirmation of the toast, draining the entire glass.

The Engineer looked around. “Count me out, kids.” _If this is going where I think it’s going_ , he thought, _I ain’t sticking around to watch it. I’ve seen enough brainwashing to last me a life time on this job_. His conscience jabbed him immediately, reminding him of a few of the devices he’d designed with the Medic and his father’s notes. He finished the last bite of his dinner and chased it down with water. Picking his plate up, the Engineer walked it to the kitchen and pulled a tumbler from the cabinet, then wandered out of the room.

Beside him, the Pyro sat quietly, blinking in self-conscious isolation. The Spy looked over at him, suddenly realizing that he’d offered the heavily medicated mercenary a powerful disinhibitor and paled. _Bon dieu_ , he prayed in a moment of long-dead belief, _do not let the boy ask_. The Pyro met the Spy’s horrified stare, catching the chagrin and terror in it.

He shrugged. “I can’t with what I’m taking.” _I’m not a monster_ , the Pyro thought, annoyance peering out from under his medicated fog. _I’m just weird_. _Weirder. Weirder than most of you_. _I know what you think of me_ . He looked down at the shapeless fire suit he’d peeled down to the waist, sweat drying in patches on his undershirt. _I know what you all think of me_. He realized he was grinding his teeth again, a medication side effect that had become permanent, and made himself stop chewing the air.

The Spy’s relief made him weak at the knees for a moment. “Perhaps the medigun?”

The Pyro looked up with a startled smile. “I’ll go get it.”

The Spy turned to the Cook. “Just the one, _Vipere,_ ” he crooned, opening the baggie and pulling a tab from it. She squinted at the tab between his fingers and he rolled it back and forth gently. _Watch my fingers, Vipere_ , he commanded her silently. _Watch my fingers and do not think about today or tomorrow. Do not think about what you have done or what you may yet do._

“How strong are these,” she finally asked, voice soft. Back and forth rolled the little tab, his long, elegant fingers conjuring it and making it disappear again and again— _a magician’s fingers_ , she thought.

“Pleasant,” he said, letting his voice become deeper. _Be now, Vipere. Be right now with us_.

Her eyebrows met and she looked up. _What is he hiding?_ “That’s not an answer, Spy.”

The slick smile that slid across his lips was flirty, his thick eyelashes fluttering down over his eyes. “ _Voir les anges, petite_ ,” he murmured. The pill disappeared in his hand, pinched between middle and forefingers, and he gently stroked her cheek.

She stared up at him, thinking out the translation against the warm, coaxing pressure of his fingers before answering. “So they’re very strong.”

“ _Oui_.” His fingers wandered to her lips and behind him, the Soldier inhaled sharply. The Spy held up a cautioning finger without breaking his eye contact with the Cook. “ _Ouvrez toi bouche_ ,” he whispered, fingers putting the faintest pressure on her lower lip. When she opened her mouth, caught in his gaze, he put the pill on her tongue. “ _Avalez, petite_.” She dry-swallowed the tab with an absent grimace, watching a secretive smile burning on his lips. “ _Bonne fille_ ,” he murmured, hand on her face, and leaned forward to kiss her. “ _Bonne, bonne fille_.”

When he broke the kiss, her eyes were glassy. _Dizzied_ , he thought with a satisfaction that was both professional and personal. _If we must remake you, Vipere, we can at least make it enjoyable_. _This was once my profession, long before the company bought my services_. _I seduce, Vipere_. _See me and know what I can do_.

“I’ll take one,” the Sniper said, watching the Spy and the enraptured look on her face. _Sneak, you clever wanker_. “This’ll be fun.”

“ _M’aussi_.” The Spy popped a tab in his mouth and washing it down with wine. _Stronger for you, Vipere, than me, and for this I do not wish to be entirely sober._

The Scout looked around and decided to go back to his room, leaving his plate on the table with customary carelessness. _Nope, I know that look and I don’t want a show with dinner_ , he thought.

 _She’s going to get hysterical when she has time to think about the fact that she’s killed somebody. Everybody does but the really sick pricks._ The Soldier’s jaw rippled, disgust contorting his face, and he finished his first glass of wine with a single long draft. _I know what you’re up to, you sneaky French whore_ , he thought. _It’s necessary. But I don’t have to like it_.

He sighed. _At least they’re fucking honest in boot camp_. 

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

By common agreement, they went to the living room. The Demo and Soldier towed bottles, the Pyro towed the medigun, and the Cook, Spy and Sniper towed themselves, an anticipatory hush falling over them all that made their footsteps seem to echo more loudly through the hall. The Spy kept his fingers laced through hers, pulling gently, and they walked together with the Sniper following them. He led her to the couch, spinning her like a dancer and with a gentle push, sat her in the middle. The Spy took her right, the Sniper her left, leaving the Soldier and Demo to sit like bookends in the chairs. The Pyro stood for a moment, awkwardly trying to figure out where to sit, and finally simply sat down on the floor next to the fireplace. For lack of anything else to do, he set up a small pyramid of wood shavings and paper, and nursed a fire into life.

 _If nothing else_ , the Pyro thought, _I’ll have something comforting to look at_. He scooted closer, turning toward the flames, and dragged the medigun close. Still staring at the flickering, dancing light, he switched it on and propped it up in his lap, under his chin. Haloed by the beam, he gave a quiet sigh of relief.

The silence stretched on for a time, punctuated by the crackle of wood burning and the clink and gulg of several people getting determinedly, seriously drunk.

“It always takes forever for these things to hit me,” the Cook complained, staring at the fabric of the couch between her legs. There are little spaces there, she realized, little spaces in the weave where raised stripes made tiny pools of shadow.

The Spy giggled, his nerves rippling like the surface of a pond. “How long, _Vipere_ , do you think you have been staring at the couch?”

She looked up. “Huh?”

The Sniper ran his hands over and over the fabric of his pants, languid eyes fixed on the flames and hunter’s body finally at rest. The Spy, equally languid, curled and un-curled his hair around his fingers and watched her. “How long,” he repeated, “do you think you’ve been staring at the couch?”

She found the question impossible to answer, a moue of distress making her pout at him. He looked at the dusting of freckles across her nose, drawing little lines between them in his head, her face a constellation. The Spy reached out, unconsciously, and traced a few of those lines with his thumb. Her face settled into an expression of quiet awe, and she turned toward him, nerves trilling tiny high-pitched songs under the whorls of fingers.

In one of the armchairs, the Soldier snorted. “Give them a little while,” he said to the Demo, “and they’ll be rolling around on the carpet.”

“Give ‘em longer and they’ll be rollin’ about on each other.” The Demo held up his bottle, letting the last few drops hit his tongue and putting it down, regretfully. _I’ll give that sneaky peacock this much_ , he thought. _That was a lovely bottle of wine_. “I’ve got to go get another. Solly?”

“Yeah,” the Soldier said, hand circling as he watched the figures on the couch. “More here.”

The Pyro turned, looking at the four of them over his shoulder. _This_ , he thought with a certain amount of regret, _will end badly if I stay. They won’t help me find the right boundaries and stay in them._ He stood up, shouldering the heavy pack of the medigun. “Good night,” he said shortly, and left before he could do any harm.

The Sniper, pulled out of his reverie by the Pyro’s body passing between him and the fire, looked over at the Cook. “You killed him today,” he said softly, pupils huge in the low light. “Was it good?”

She let a shiver that ended in a moan, face still captured by the Spy’s fingers. The Sniper moved a little closer to her on the couch. “Can I tell you a secret,” he whispered.

“What,” she breathed, eyes fluttered closed against the champagne bubbles than ran through her with every movement of the Spy’s thumb.

The Sniper leaned forward, resting his chin on her shoulder. “It’s pretty fun almost all the time.” She smelled like sweet musk under her sweat and he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the perfume of her shampoo and beneath it, her smell. He grunted and reached out for the back of her neck, holding it still so he could keep his nose pressed to her scalp, eyes closed.

The Spy chuckled, thumb moving to sweep the tender skin of her cheek. “Get a little closer, _Bête_.”

With a last deep sniff, the Sniper sat up, frowning, fingers still clasping the back of her neck. “You don’t….” He pointed at the Spy with his free hand, then back at himself. “I’m the boss.”

“Really, _Bête_?” The Spy cocked a single, sardonic eyebrow at the Sniper.

He could not hold a glare, the fine hairs on the back of her neck calling his attention back to her. “Sometimes,” the Sniper murmured, and leaned in again. He could feel the great pulse in her neck with the edge of his forefinger, a small vibration that travelled his arm in waves. “All day,” he whispered, her hair caressing his lips as they moved. “I’ve been watching you all day.”

The Soldier pointed at the Spy and Sniper with a startled shout that echoed like thunder in their heads. “I knew it!” He sat up, leaning forward on his knees. “I knew the two of you were up to something together and it wasn’t just her. You fight too much.”

The Spy half-turned, making a face. “We do not advertise.”

“You just did.”

The Demo walked in, the neck of a bottle in each hand. He’d picked the Spy’s door while he was distracted, expecting the trip wire, and relieved the man of the two most expensive bottles he could find. _And now, yeh sneaky bastard, we’re even_. “What, he said, “no touching already?”

He handed a bottle to the Soldier and sat down, looking at the tableau before him: the Sniper had buried both hands in the Cook’s hair, releasing it from her bun, and had his nose pressed to her scalp. The Spy watched them both, eyelids swollen, with a satisfied, proprietary smile. “Seems a waste o’ perfectly good ecstasy.”

“Negatory, but the Spy and the Sniper just confessed their love.”

The Spy growled once without looking back. The Sniper looked around the room until he found the Soldier. “That’s not what…”

“Close enough.” The Soldier raised the bottle. “To Lady Freedom!” When he lowered it, he squinted drunkenly at the label, then looked over sharply at the Demo.

The Demo gave him a mischievous smile and held a finger up to his lips, then spoke chidingly to the Soldier. “Have yeh considered just drinking it?”

After a shocked moment, the Soldier grinned back. _Spy’s going to shit himself when he sobers up_. “I am,” he said, with mock indignation. “I’m just Americanizing it first.”

The Sniper scooted over again, pressing the long line of his leg against hers and his chest to her back. “Too many clothes,” he complained. “You’re wearing too many clothes.” _All day, all day I’ve been good. Let me touch you_. After a moment, he realized he’d said it out loud. There was a moment of silence. She froze, blinking. The Spy glared at him, then went back to gently stroking her face.

“Shhhh,” he crooned and she melted back into them both, eyes closing again. “As one hunts fish with bare hands. Slowly and gently.” The Spy brought his other hand to her face, cupping it so that he was barely touching her and brushed his mouth against hers with the ghost of a pressure. “ _Comme l’abeille dîne la fleur, Bête._ ”

The Sniper blinked, mouth moving. _Something about flowers,_ he translated with a frown of concentration, _and fishing barehanded, which all boils down to patience, knowing Sneak. Except he’s leaving out the part in barehanded fishing where you snatch it out of the water_. He sighed and went back to running his fingers through the thick, heavy mass of her hair, body pressed against hers.

“Well, at least they’re touchin.’” _And at least she’s nae frozen_ , _but she may be a mass o’ rage later. I suppose_ , he thought, resignation making him slump in his chair, _if any of us had to coax her out and change her mind about the whole thing, it might as well be the gigolo_. The Demo looked over at the Soldier. “Do yeh think if we mashed their faces together, they’d kiss some more?”

“I think I’d kiss her,” the Soldier said. “Dunno about either of them, though.”

The Cook turned her head, unbalancing the Sniper. “They’re not bad,” she said, words slowly dripping from her mouth. Her lips were bee-stung, a flush heating her cheeks.

 _If only yeh knew_ , the Demo thought with a wry twist of his lips. He looked over at the Soldier, the avid hunger on his face, and the slowly moving shapes on the couch. _This is about to be a bit more sharing than I care to do_.

“We’re very good,” the Spy purred and leaned past the Cook to press his lips to Sniper with the same slow, gentle brush that he knew would madden his impulsive lover. Squeezed between them, the Cook made a hungry little noise in the back of her throat, hands rising to the Spy’s chest. The Sniper made a low groaning noise and grabbed the back of the Spy’s head with one hand, the other tightening in the Cook’s hair as she squeaked. The Spy pulled back and looked down, checking on her.

“Do yeh think we should leave?” The Demo looked over at the Soldier, smirking as he teased the man. _Nae, that one’s not likely to move anytime soon_.

“Probably,” the man answered, his words slurring slightly, “but I ain’t moving.” The Soldier tapped the half-empty bottle against his knee with a thoughtful expression. “I’ve always wondered. I mean, I ain’t a fairy.” His words fell into the sudden silence like a stone, and he flushed as the Demo rolled an incredulous eye over to him.

The Demo could not have been more surprised if the door had burst open and an _each uisge_ had stepped through to take them all for a midnight ride. _I’d never have known_ , he thought, stunned. _But it’s like yeh Solly to be this suicidal_. “Have yeh seen their kill counts?”

“Lassie,” the Demo said, “yeh might wanna move.” _If yeh’ve never been in a bar fight_ , he added silently, _this may be yehr night_. He moved his bottle to the side of the chair furthest from the couch. _I’m nae sure I’d break it up, either, unless they both wade in_.

The Soldier blinked as fear did the work of a good cup of coffee. The Spy and Sniper appeared to be ignoring him, but he had no doubt at least one of them had been paying enough attention to hear him. _I’ll pay for that later_ , he thought, a chill running down his back.

The Spy’s hand snaked out and took a handful of the Cook’s shirt, but neither man got up.

The Demo let the breath he’d been holding out, slowly. “Or not. Well, lads and lassie, I’m off ta bed. Solly, if yeh’ll take my advice, yeh’ll go to yours.”

The Soldier looked over at the two men and looked down at his bottle, lingering in the chair. With an exasperated gesture, the Demo picked up his bottle and left.

The Spy turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed to malicious slits. “What did you wonder, Solly?” As his attention shifted, the Sniper started to rub at the tight muscles of the Cook’s back, keeping her occupied while his partner dealt with the Soldier. She shifted uncomfortably for a moment, then let him work.

The Soldier shrugged, irritably, still staring at the bottle. “Nothing, Spy.” _I owe you the one punch, you sneaky fucker. One. Any more than that and I’ll kick your skinny French ass_.

A slow, nasty smile crept across the Spy’s face. “Wondering what it’s like, Solly?”

“I said I get weird when I drink.” The Soldier stood up suddenly and nearly sat back down, fumbling for the chair arm, before slowly propping himself back up. “I’m going to go. I should have gone.” He took a few, faltering steps toward the door before the Spy spoke, his voice silky and warm.

“Wanna try kissing me, Solly?”

The Cook and Sniper stared at the Spy, and then at the Soldier.

“I….” The Soldier flapped his hands, then gripped one hand with another and held them tightly in front of him. “I have to go.”

The Spy rose from the couch, wobbling only slightly, and glided toward the Soldier, who stumbled backward until his back was pressed to the wall. “It’s only a kiss,” the Spy murmured, his smile growing increasingly barbed as the taller man paled. “Only a kiss.”

He leaned in slowly, putting his hands on the wall on either side of the Soldier’s head. “Do you want a kiss, Soldier?” The Spy’s smile was vulpine. “A kiss from a fairy makes you a fairy, Solly. Behind all the bellowing, is there a fairy?” He leaned in until his breath feathered across the Soldier’s cheeks. “Do you want to find out what it’s like to kiss a fairy,” he whispered.

The Sniper stopped rubbing, a similar, vulpine grin on his face.

“You could always escape me, Solly, but here you are,” the Spy breathed. “Has it been killing you, Solly? Have you been awake at night wondering what it would be like, or have you been brave enough to try?”

The Spy’s thick, dark eyelashes fluttered down over his eyes. “Aren’t you going to run, Solly?”

The Soldier swallowed heavily, his eyes open wide, then grabbed the astonished Spy’s shirt and kissed him with anguished violence. After a moment, the Spy let himself relax into it, his hands reaching down to cover the Soldier’s wrists in case he lashed out. The kiss was not short, and Spy licked lazy little trills that mimicked head on the Soldier’s tongue, stilling his violence and making him groan. When the Spy stepped back, still holding the Soldier’s wrists, he smiled lazily. “Sweet like the first day of summer, Solly.”

The Soldier took a deep breath, stunned. “I…that was not bad.”

“Want to join us on the couch, Solly?” The Sniper fought the urge to laugh, but it was a near thing. _Sneak never fights fair if he can help it_. The thought was followed by a surge of hunger. _I haven’t watched him seduce another man in a long time_. _I haven’t watched him seduce a virgin in a really long time_. He looked down at the Cook, who was watching the Spy and Soldier with hazy curiosity. _One of both. Sneak, you bloody amazing pervert_.

The Soldier let himself be led to the couch and sat at the end of it, his eyes pleading. “I don’t know what to do now,” he said quietly.

At the sound of laughter, he looked over to see the Sniper giggling, a surprisingly high-pitched sound completely unlike his normal rumble. The Soldier flushed, and the Spy made an inarticulate, annoyed noise. “Sorry,” the Sniper said, winding down. “Let Sneak drive. He’s good at this.” The Soldier frowned at him, still embarrassed.

“Oi,” the Sniper said, laughter still skipping in his voice. “Don’t be offended, mate. He’s just… very good. Let him tell you what to do.” He picked up the Cook, scooting them both back before she had time to respond and laying her back against his chest. She froze, and he sighed. _Right, like fishing and flowers and other slow shit_. He picked up one of her arms and started to rub the knots from it. After a moment, she relaxed again.

The Soldier put his hands in his lap, looking anxiously at the Spy, who flicked them off and straddled him, putting his arms on the Soldier’s shoulders and crossing them behind his neck. The Soldier’s hands hovered, uncertain.

“Touch me. Touch me like I was her.” The Spy turned his head and nodded at the Cook where she lay sprawled across the Sniper’s chest, a particularly filthy grin on this face. She opened her eyes and made a questioning noise, a little grunt that went up at the end, and the Sniper picked up her other forearm, finding and soothing the knots in it.

The Soldier gingerly put his hands on the Spy’s hips and looked at him. “Now what?”

“Now, I kiss you again.” He bent down, pressing his lips to the Soldier’s—at first slick, then harder, letting the kiss become hungry. The Soldier’s arms tightened, wrapping themselves around the Spy, and he ate the Spy’s low chuckle.

The Spy broke the kiss, leaning to the side away from the Cook and Sniper. “Do not get in the way of what we have to do,” he hissed against the Soldier’s ear.

The Soldier’s arms tightened painfully around him. “I won’t,” he whispered. “But I don’t have to like it.”

With an ambiguous smile, the Spy trailed kisses down the side of his neck and the Soldier’s arms loosened. “She will,” he breathed. “Tell me, are you just here for her?” The Soldier took a breath, and the Spy opened his mouth, sucking at the side of the Soldier’s neck. The Soldier groaned.

When the Spy let his mouth open, he whispered again. “I thought not. I will get to you and then I will get to her, and you can watch if you like. You can”—he nipped the Soldier, who shivered—“make sure we play nice.” The Spy undulated, rubbing his groin against the Soldier who was already responding, and swayed back fluidly. “If you have not kissed a man,” he purred, “have you ever been blown by one?”

The Soldier opened his eyes wide, his arms growing lax. “It’s been a long time since anyone—“

 _That lazy little tart_ , the Spy thought, glancing over at the Sniper, whose hands were becoming restless. _Best to distract and entertain before he chases her back into the ice_. The Spy turned back to the Soldier. “Want one?”

The Sniper’s hands froze with his breath, then he wrapped his arms loosely around the Cook. She snuggled into his chest and looked over at the other end of the couch. “Pretty,” she said, curiosity sharpening her voice.

“I’ll try.” The Soldier looked at him, eyes wary.

The Spy smiled sweetly and stroked the Soldier’s arms, following them slowly to his hips and in, finally resting lightly on to the buckle of the Soldier’s belt. With a lascivious smile, the Spy pulled the belt from the loops on the Soldier’s shirt and tossed it behind him. The Spy smoothed his hands down the Soldier’s legs and stood, giving his pants a quick tug. “Off.”

The Soldier wriggled out of his pants and watched the Spy warily. “No teeth, right?”

The Spy’s half smile was mostly disbelief. “Not, Solly, unless you asked for it.”

“Hell, no.”

The Sniper put his chin on the Cook’s shoulder to watch and she nuzzled the side of his neck. The Spy sank down to the Soldier’s kneecaps and laid a soft line of kisses up the inside of his leg. The Soldier shifted, then pulled his uniform shirt and tank top off, throwing across the room. “Might as well,” he said with an apologetic shrug.

The Spy smiled against the inside of the Soldier’s thigh and huffed a gentle breath against him. The Soldier closed his eyes, fingers clenching on the couch.

“Bigger than I thought you’d be,” the Spy remarked quietly, looking up the length of the Soldier’s cock. Slowly, achingly slowly, he laid a second line of kisses up its length. The Soldier moaned quietly, watching him.

The Sniper rubbed the side of his face against the Cook’s hair. “I love it when you do this,” he said, watching the Spy’s mouth move. The Soldier looked over with a worry that dissolved in a second line of light, brushing kisses. The Spy sat back on his heels, sardonic amusement playing across his face, and let his mouth hover just over the Soldier’s swelling cock.

“Ask him,” the Sniper said. “Ask him for it.”

The Soldier looked down, eyes wild. “Please.”

With a throaty chuckle, the Spy came up on his knees and licked the Soldier’s cock from balls to head. The muscles in the Soldier’s thigh shook and he shouted.

The Spy smirked and pursed his lips, making a muscular ring, then slid them slowly over the Soldier, who gave him a sobbing moan. The Soldier’s arms came up off the couch and shook, muscles jumping beneath his skin. His head flew back, bouncing against the back of the couch. The Spy growled, muffled by the cock in his mouth, and rolled his eyes up to watch the Soldier’s body tense as the Spy’s head moved up and down.

“Can I—,” the Soldier panted, and groped the air above the Spy’s head.

The Spy pulled back just enough to respond. “ _Oui_. Gently.”

The Soldier fumbled through the air until he found the hair on the Spy’s head, gripping either side of it, and thrust very carefully into the Spy’s mouth. The Sniper throbbed in sympathy behind the Cook, provoking a low noise from her. “When he’s high, Solly, he has no gag reflex. _None_. I’ve tried.”

The Soldier’s fingers flexed against the Spy’s head, but he decided against it. The Spy laughed around his mouthful and reached up, squeezing the Soldier’s hands. The Soldier took a firmer grip and started to bounce the Spy’s head carefully up and down. “A few seconds longer,” whispered the Sniper. “Just a few seconds.”

The orgasm traveled up the Soldier’s spine, rolling tension exploding from his mouth in a guttural cry, blood throbbing in white stars behind his eyelids. The Spy lingered, throat working, and when he pulled back, had sucked the Soldier clean. The Sniper hissed, fingers digging into the Cook involuntarily. She looked up, alarmed, and he petted her absently.

The Soldier looked at the Spy, eyes unfocused. “I don’t even…. I can’t….”

The Spy wiped the corner of his mouth, sitting back on his heels with a pleased smirk.

The Soldier’s eyes focused on the Spy’s mouth and he shivered. “I can’t sit across from you without thinking about your mouth. Jesus, how the fuck am I supposed to eat?”

“One bite—,” the Spy said, leaning forward to lick the Soldier teasingly, “—at a time.”

The Soldier wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I can’t figure out if I’ve sobered up or you just sucked the booze out of me.”

“If you want, I can get you back up again.” The Spy took the baggie from his pocket and shook it once at the Soldier, smiling at the double entendre.

“Sneak, I couldn’t possibly. I could fuck, but I’m so goddamn tingly right now, I’d be afraid to have more.”

“A compliment, Solly, that I greatly appreciate.” The Spy stood up carefully, dusting his knees off. “And now,” he said, “to our other problem.” They looked over at the bemused Cook. _Good_ , the Spy thought. _Still floating_.

The Soldier took a breath. “How will you—,” and stopped at the Spy’s raised finger. _Really_ , the Spy thought wryly. _If I had known you would respond this easily to a raised finger I would have used it on you every time you bellowed about your ridiculous country_.

The Spy bent down, gently sliding the glasses from her face and put them on one of the empty armchairs. She blinked at him and he pulled at her arms, standing her up in the circle of them. He slid his arms down to her hands. “ _Vipere_ ,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”

She smiled, an unfocused thing, and he put her hands on his face. She swayed gently and he jerked his head at the Sniper, who got behind her, gently clasping her shoulders.

The Spy pressed a kiss to one of her hands and she gasped. He rolled the edge of her sleeve up, following his fingers with his mouth and making her tremble, sagging back against the Sniper. _No protest_ , he thought. _No, not yet_. He let his mouth follow one of her arms up, maintaining the same gentle touch to watch her as she swayed. The Spy reached her mouth and holding her face with both hands, went back to the teasing, faint brush of his lips. He could feel her smile, body becoming pliant. The Sniper shifted and he kept kissing her gently, letting a single hand drift down and tug her heavy sweatshirt off, millimeter by millimeter, handing it off to the Sniper to work her hands down through her sleeves and go back to holding her as he leaned back slightly and pulled it off.

Her brows met and she blinked, uncertain, but he went back to kissing her before slowly gliding his hand down again, tugging slowly at the sweat-soaked shirt beneath it. “Trust me,” he whispered into her mouth. “You did so well today and we missed you so much.” Her face softened and he felt a spiteful wrench of guilt— _it makes them believe you love them_. _It will make her believe for a night that you love her and she will let you do what you must_.

The Spy rolled it up her body, handing it off to the Sniper to pull from her and returning to the same dizzying chain of kisses. He stroked the bare skin of her arms, seeking the spots that would elicit a shiver and faint moan. “So well, _Vipere_ , so good.” The Spy slid her arms around him, letting her hold on to him, transferring his hands so that he was stoking her back in gentle, lazy circles as he kissed her. She relaxed into him and he delicately unhooked her bra, leaning her back against the Sniper without breaking the kiss and pulling it off. He brought her body back to his and went back to stroking, keeping her skin buzzing and rippling under his hands.

 _The next part_ , the Spy thought, _is where this could be difficult_. One of his hands pointed briefly at her shoes and the Sniper took the hint, bending down and lifting one of her feet. She made a confused noise, drawing back, and he shifted his hands to her hair, still kissing her, cradling her skull. For a minor miracle, the Sniper was gentle, catching the Spy’s mood.

 _We are going to have a chat about this later, sonny boy_. The Soldier stared bloody murder at the Spy, then shifted uncomfortably on the couch, looking away. _I know what this technique is and you are even more of a son of a bitch than I thought you were. Jesus._

Her socks followed her shoes, and she stood barefoot on the floor. With a gesture, the Spy called the Sniper close, making a stroking gesture in the air above her back. The Sniper nodded and started to stroke her skin gently, pressing his body to hers. When he reached for her breasts the Spy shook his head, still kissing her, and the Sniper circled around them with his fingers, staying away.

The Spy paused for a moment. _Vipere_ , he said silently, _I am sorry_. He reached down, running a finger along the skin just above her jeans. She stiffened immediately, and the Spy started to whisper in the language of her childhood, smiling gently at her. “ _Bonne fille_ .” Her eyelids fluttered, confusion on her face. “ _Détendez-vous, bonne fille_ ,” he crooned. “ _Délassez-vous.”_ He kissed her eyelids, letting his lips linger as he stroked the skin, working millimeter by millimeter under the band of her jeans. “ _Vous êtes á la maison, petite. Ta maison. C’est ta maison_.” He slowly pulled the button from its hole, still running his fingers gently over the exposed skin.

The Soldier took a breath and the Sniper glared at him. The Soldier snarled at him silently, skin crawling. _I’m here to make sure that snake doesn’t do more than he has to_ , he reminded himself.

When she relaxed again, the Spy’s stroking fingers found the zipper and loosened its teeth. She pulled back, starting to struggle, and he clasped her face in his, kissing again, a slow, languid thing that ran through her in a million tiny electric sparks, joining the warm current of the Sniper’s hands as they stroked. “ _Tu es en sécurité_ ,” the Spy murmured, hand smoothing the fabric of her jeans and underwear down her hips. He caught the Sniper’s eye and nodded at her breasts, warning him with a glance to be gentle, and rejoined the kiss, slowly smoothing the cloth down and keeping the skin warm as he moved. The Sniper let his fingers drift in, slowly, a tide advancing and receding, each time a little closer to her nipple. He breathed with her, against her, matching their breaths until she wasn’t sure where his body stopped and hers began. The Spy knelt, pulling the jeans and panties free of her legs while the Sniper breathed with her, letting her lean back against him. When she didn’t flinch, he made short work of stripping himself and pulled her into his body while the Sniper tore his clothes off.

The Spy hummed a wordless tune in the back of his throat, kissing her face in tiny, lingering kisses and led her like that back to the couch. The Sniper sat down first, letting the Spy gently, inexorably push her down until she sat in the Sniper’s lap. He knelt in front of her, body still pressed to her fever-hot skin, and slowly feathered his lips down the side of her neck, waiting to see when she would flinch, if she would flinch. Her eyes opened when he traced the inside slope of her breasts and he murmured again into them, the words so quiet they disappeared as they were heard, melting into her skin. “ _En sécurité avec moi, petite_.”

The Sniper took up the tune, wordless and wandering, his chest vibrating with it, inflating and falling with the breath they shared. She floated, buoyed up by a warm tide, eyes closed. His eyes flicked up at the Spy, a question in them and the Spy made a quick gesture with his hand. _Shortly_.

The warm tide grew warmer, hands moving, the chest behind her rising and falling, and a wet warmth slowly constricting around her nipple. She moaned, body moving loosely, tide heating again, a voice in her ear repeating in the familiar language of her childhood that she was safe, that she was loved, that everything was fine and she was a good person. Warmer now again, her thoughts moved like faint dark shapes in the water, incomprehensible. Hands lifted her, hungry now, the words repeating and now she was repeating them. _Safe. Good. Love_.

She surfaced and the Spy kissed her down again, stroking her into thoughtless hunger, repeating the same words. She reached up for him, drawing him down into her body. “Hungry,” he whispered in her ear and she repeated it, the word slipping like music from her, mirroring him and making noise now while he kept whispering in her ear. _Safe_ and she echoed him. _Good_ and she echoed him, the hunger drawing her up, the tide becoming more urgent. His eyes above hers, pupils large and dark, reflecting her face in his, the breathing behind her echoing hers and the Spy kissing her again, a wet pressure that went on and on, sweat making her slide against him and the chest behind her. Someone’s hands closed on her arms, anchoring her, and for a moment she wanted to pull away but the tide came back, words echoing on either side of her as if they had passed through her, the world narrowing to a tension that kept rising, rising without breaking, her eyes rolled up in her head and the words still passing through her with the steadily louder sound of her pulse, breath growing ragged now. The voices called her by names, not her name and she whispered it. There was a moment of silence, and the voices called her name, one after the other, calling her slowly back as the tension began to break over her, the hands squeezing harder and she opened her eyes in time to scream into the Spy’s mouth as she came.

He smiled at her, tiredly, sweat dripping from every part of his body and drew back to let her speak, still buried inside her. She blinked, her entire body thrumming and still hungry, its edge blunted by inarticulate warmth of being comfortable. “Come back to us, _Vipere,”_ he said, breathless. The Sniper kissed the top of her head, releasing his grip on her upper arms.

“If you wish to be useful,” the Spy said to the Soldier, still staring at her face, “get water.”

The Soldier swore, pulling on his pants, and padded out, barefoot.

“Still hungry, _Vipere_?”

She could hear him, but the words were still flowing around her, through her fingers, and she could not catch them. He moved gently and she reached for him, pulling him down and kissing him. He kissed her and pulled back again. “You must come back, _Vipere_. You must come back to speech for me.” She reached for him again, confused, and he leaned back.

“Come back, _Vipere_ , you have to be awake for this part.”

She concentrated on speech, on words, grabbing at them until she could find something. She swallowed, throat dry, brow furrowed. “Here.”

“Yes, _Vipere_ , you are here.”

“Thirsty.”

The Soldier came back into the room, body tense with furious anger.

“Thirsty,” she said, looking at him.

He bit his lip and stiffly bent to offer her the glass. She would have drunk the whole thing, but the Spy gently took it from her and polished it off. She let him have it because it made him happy, and he smiled at her, handing the cup back to the Soldier without looking.

“ _Vipere_ , for this part we must talk. Can you talk to me?”

She nodded and he beamed at her. She smiled, shyly. The Sniper shifted behind her again, uncomfortably hard.

“We’re going to move now, so we can give our poor Sniper the chance to stretch.” The Spy wrapped his arms around her and lifted, wrapping her legs around him and turning to sit on the couch, still inside her. She moved experimentally, and he chided her. “Not yet, _Vipere_.”

The Sniper sat the rest of the way up with a groan, a hand rubbing at his lower back, then sank back down on the couch. She watched him, head cocked and curious. The Soldier sat down in one of the armchairs, radiating the desire to hurt someone.

“ _Vipere_ ,” the Spy said softly, thrusting once to get her attention. She looked down at him, a soft smile on her face. “Where are you?”

His familiar face—the long blade of his nose, the salt and pepper in his hair, lips smiling at hers—“home,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his face. He pressed a kiss to her palm, eyes intent.

“Do you trust me, _Vipere_?”

“Yes,” she said, tracing lines across his chest. The Soldier made a noise like a steam valve under pressure and she looked at him, confused.

“We’re trying to help you, _Vipere_. We want to make you happy.”

She smiled again, hair tumbling in sweat-matted waves around her as she moved.

“You were very good, today,” he said, staring into her eyes. “You did a very good job today.”

The tiniest wrinkle appeared between her eyes. The Spy moved with her, sending a wave of warmth up her spine and she gasped, watching him.

“You’re only defending yourself, _Vipere_. It is a skill, a good skill to have.” She looked down at the pleasure gathering on his face and he reached for her hips. Something in her mind twitched but was buried under the warm, honeyed tension that she could feel gathering inside her. “Simply a skill, nothing more. Nothing bad happens. Nothing permanent. There is just this”—he rolled his hips—“me and you and our friends.”

His breath started to quicken and hers with it, still staring down as pleasure made his rhythm falter and hers with it. He kept his eyes open, staring into hers, keeping hers open as the tension broke for her, and then for him. She fell forward, hands on the couch, and he sat up, helping her slide off of him and cuddle down against him.

The Spy’s fingers traced circles on her arm. “Are you still hungry, _Vipere_?” She reached for him and kissed him. He smiled tenderly at her. “Are you still hungry?” After a moment she nodded. “Always,” she said, and a pair of hands turned her to face the Sniper, an odd expression on his face. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her, gently, drawing back to look at her eyes.

She looked at him nervously and he kissed her again, the same wet pressure she remembered, pulling her so that she straddled him and she melted into his hands. From some distant place, she heard the Spy’s voice. “Vipere, I am going to get more water. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

The Cook would have nodded, but the Sniper’s hands were on her face, their warmth stealing her breath and her attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Fever Ray, "The Wolf"


	18. Chapter 18

The Spy watched them for a moment as he pulled on his slacks, leaving his underwear on the floor— _how odd_ , he thought distantly, _to fall back on the habit of modesty at a moment like this_. The Sniper moved with the same, slow pace he’d set, languid and unlike his normal frenzy. He kissed the woman gently, letting her press herself against him and reach to pull him inside her.The Spy tried for philosophical resignation and instead got the sensation that there were simply not enough showers in the world to clean him. _Well_ , he thought, watching the Sniper hold her as if she were made of porcelain, _he takes a cue better than I thought he did_. _Could just be because he's fucking high_.

The Soldier followed the Spy out into the hall, letting the man get several feet from the living room door before grabbing his elbow and backing him up into a wall with a meaty thud. “Give me,” he ground out, fingers leaving bruises in the Spy’s arm, “one good reason why I should not kick your ass up and down this hall for using that technique. At least when they brainwash you in boot camp they don’t make you think they fucking love you first.”

He sighed, looking at the Soldier’s face. “It will not last,” the Spy said softly. “The only things left, unless I do this quite regularly for some time, will be a certain amount of confusion when she speaks to me, a blurring of her memories of her time on the field, and the nagging sense that she is happier here. She may have the same confusion when the Sniper is around her, or when she wields a gun. I certainly tried to blur that line as much as I could.”

The Spy pulled his arm from the Soldier’s grip with a wrench. “She may also be more emotional with us. It is too early to tell. I will have to spend a certain amount of time helping her rationalize the situation aside from her feelings on it.” He ran his free hand through his hair, wringing sweat from it to spatter on the floor. “I am quite tired, Solly. It is more work than it seems. Let me go.”

The Spy turned to walk away and the Soldier pushed him against the wall. “Right,” he said, spit flying from between his clenched teeth, “until she figures out what you just did. What did you specialize in, you rapey motherfucker? Did they send you in to make cults for _la Mére Patrie_?” He looked at the brief surprise pass across the Spy’s face and sneered. “Yeah, I did learn a few words when I passed through your shit hole of a country.”

The Spy closed his eyes. “You know what they do to make soldiers, Solly. They run you until you are ragged and then run you some more until you do not think, you simply jump when they tell you to and die where they tell you to.”

He opened his eyes, glaring at the Soldier, taking in the pulsing vein in the man’s forehead and the signs of arousal that the man no doubt wished to ignore. _I will be merciful_ , the Spy decided, _and not bring to his attention the weapon he has just handed me. At least I may be merciful to someone tonight_. “You know what they do to teach us to resist interrogation. You cannot tell me that this is not a more merciful way of doing this in the time we have.”

“What,” the Soldier said, rage fragmenting his sentence into chunks. “Did you. Specialize in.” _Merciful? This was the merciful way of dulling her to what she was becoming? It would have been bad enough if you’d just gotten her loaded and talked to her._ His hand clenched in midair, groping for the familiar handle of his trench shovel.

The Spy rubbed at the tension headache gathering between his eyes with two fingers, the muscles stiff with overwork. “ _Crétin_. I should make you guess, but I am too tired.” He drew himself up straight, pushing away from the wall. “I specialized in what you could call asset acquisition. Though you would, no doubt, have other words for it.”

“Other words for it….” The Soldier stared at him. “That was,” he said, pointing violently at the living room they’d left, “the single dirtiest thing I have ever witnessed. You could have just talked to her. We killed them or beat a little fear of god into them in my unit. We didn’t—”

The Spy cut him off. “Did not what, Solly? Did not leave them with the ability to walk? Did not leave any bones unbroken? Did not leave any alive? You cannot tell me that you or some man with whom you ate every day did not take liberties with a woman who may not have wished him to. I know what war we came out of. _Oui_ ,” he said, lip curling in a sneer, “I could have talked. Which would she thank me for taking? Her secrets or her body?”

“We didn’t,” the Soldier said, memory etching his face, “play with their heads like a sport.”

“A sport?” The Spy took a breath, beating down the killing ice running through his veins with what was left of his self-control. _Too soon. I cannot take too much more of this._ “Let me ask you something: what will the company do if she tries to run? Do you suppose, after she has seen this place, that they will be content to let her go if they think she will break her word?” He stalked forward, finger stabbing into the Soldier’s chest. “And what will happen if BLU takes her again? When has she ever had any preparation for that? Do you have,” his hissed, face inches from the Soldier’s face, “any idea what Blutarch hired?”

The Soldier looked at him uncomfortably, silent, the cheap florescent lighting of the base washing green into the ruddy hue of his cheeks. He’d met his counterpart, and had seen what happened to the women he’d taken somewhere private. His counterpart had cornered him once, and once only, assuming they had similar interests. The Soldier shuddered. The man had wanted to _talk shop_. The RED Soldier had come over the booth, one of the few fights he’d had on civilian turf since joining RED, and tried to cut the BLU Soldier’s tongue out with the broken end of his beer bottle to get him to stop talking.

“I know what Blutarch hired.” The Spy’s fingers tightened on the glass with a faint crunch, a spider web of cracks forming. “I know exactly what he hired. They are never”—his voice rose—“going to find anyone who can be sent to them. Instead, they are going to come back for her again and again, worrying at her like rabid dogs because they do not have their own and because she is there. _Do you know what I found him doing?_ ” The last sentence was a shout that echoed through the halls.

The Spy looked down at the cracked glass in his hand, disgusted with himself, the glass, the conversation, the— _enough_ . “You can,” he said into the unnatural silence, “hate me for this. She may hate me for this. But I have done what I think would help.” _Not_ , he added silently, _that my intentions have any effect on what I have done_. “I have taken a gamble,” he told the Soldier quietly. “Let us hope I was right and I have bought her a little peace.”

“At what price,” the RED Soldier said, equally hushed. “We were all broken when we got here. You took both from her, you greedy bastard.”

The Spy had watched human folly and been his own fool for ninety-two years. _For fourteen of them_ , he thought, _I lied, cheated, stole, fucked, assassinated, seduced, abandoned, drugged, and beat the enemies of the French government_. _For the last fifty, I have participated in an orgy of death that has no parallel_. _I haven’t been naïf since I stole my first pastry at nine_. _What is one more sin in that parade?_

“Solly,” he said, voice distant, “if you wish to be helpful, bring her water and be the face she wakes up to. Just don’t fuck her.”

At that he turned, the skin of his bare feet making a faint squeak against the concrete floor and stalked to the kitchen. After a moment, the Soldier followed him.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

They let themselves back into the living room quietly, finding the Cook curled into a ball in the Sniper’s lap, sleepily listening to him talk about hunting. Her head was tilted to hear his heart beat, a small smile on her face. He kept talking, watching them circle around the couch. The Spy leaned down to put his hand against the Cook’s cheek and she blinked.

“More water, _Vipere_ ,” he said. “Here. Drink it.”

She drank and snuggled back against the Sniper’s chest, burying her nose in the thick patch of hair in its center. The Soldier reached out for her and the Sniper handed her over without a word. She mumbled sleepily and sighed. The Spy handed his lover a glass of water and made a bundle of their clothing, holding the living room door open as the Soldier walked through it and back toward her room, arms full.

The Sniper looked at the Spy with a complex expression on his face—concern, anger, and the surrender of understanding his lover’s guilt—then followed him back to his room, both stepping over the tripwire by rote. Looking his lover up and down, he grabbed the Spy by the back of the neck, sending the clothing in his arms flying. The Sniper bent the Spy over his desk, pulling his pants down hard enough to send the button ricocheting off the wood in front of them both. Still naked, he fumbled open a desk drawer, uncapping a tube and lubing himself just enough to get himself into the limp, submissive Spy without preparation.

He grunted, digging his fingers into the Spy’s hips, and once he was as deep inside him as he could go, reached forward and hooked two fingers in the man’s mouth, turning his head. The Spy looked at him with a single eye, speechless, and the Sniper snarled at him, staring into his eye and fucking him violently until he came. He pulled himself out of the Spy and turned the man around. They stared at each other, the unholy expression on the Sniper’s face daring the Spy to react, to beg or give any sign of defiance. The Spy opened his hands, letting his head fall back.

His lover dug iron-hard fingers into his windpipe, staring, waiting for the bluish tinge and a reaction. The Spy stayed standing, head thrown back, still hard, waiting. When the Sniper loosened his hand, the Spy opened his eyes.

They stared at each other, the Spy answering the manic rage on his partner’s face with the indifference of someone who is already dead. The Sniper sighed and reached out for him, pulling his lover stiffly into his chest. They stood there for a moment before the Sniper pulled the Spy into bed with him, something they had never done, lambent eyes watching the Spy as the man fell asleep.

Once he was sure the Spy had passed out, the Sniper kissed his cheek, a single brush of his lips, and let himself sink down onto the bed.

 **< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

In her room, the Soldier looked down at the naked bundle in his arms. “Rosie,” he said quietly, jogging her in his arms. She looked up at him, bleary-eyed and frustrated at being nudged awake.

“Rosie, you’re going to want a shower. Trust me on this one.” The Soldier kicked the door closed as gently as he could, and turned her sideways to fit them both through the narrow door of the bathroom. The plug was still on the counter—disgust twisted his features. He sat her on the counter and turned on the shower, testing the water with his hand. When he turned to get her, she was running her fingers across the smooth rubber, textures still clinging and echoing in the tangled wires of her nerves.

The Soldier looked at her, then sighed. “Rosie, if you can hear me, I’m not sure you can take a shower without falling down and hurting yourself, so I’m going to get in there with you. I’m not going to do anything but wash you, okay?”

Her smile was sweet and completely without artifice, and it made him want to be violently ill. The Soldier stripped out of his fatigue pants and herded her into the shower. She leaned against him as he soaped her down clumsily, head lolling against his chest, and moaned without inhibition when he washed her hair. His hands shook. As soon as he was sure she was rinsed, the Soldier turned off the shower and wrapped her in the only towel. She leaned against the counter, drowsy, as he pulled his fatigue pants back on.

“Rosie, where do you keep your pajamas?”

“Drawers,” she said, voice slurred and slow.

He led her out, sitting her on the bed, and rifled through her drawers feeling like a thief. He drew panties and the single most modest pair of pajamas he could find out of them, dressed her carefully, and tucked them both into bed.

“My name isn’t Rosie,” she said, settling into her bed with a sigh.

After a long pause, in which he considered running out of the room repeatedly, the Soldier responded. “I know… Rosie.” _Please_ , he prayed. _Don’t hate me in the morning_.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The BLU soldier reached through the open cage, his fingers curling around her ankle. His free hand rubbed his crotch. “Fight me for it, honey. Fight me for it.”

The Cook screamed and lashed out with her fists, but she couldn’t hurt him. They slowed as they neared him until they became a lover’s caress. She watched her hands, horrified, as they curled around his neck, pressing her body to his. “Fight harder, sweetie.” His voice held victory—foregone and sure—“I’m still going to fuck you.”

She screamed and her scream became a moan, growing hoarser and hoarser, quieter and quieter until she could make no sounds at all, and his hands were around her throat. “I love it when they cry,” he said and she did.

“Rosie? Rosie!” Someone was shaking her and she lashed out, making contact with something solid. There was a grunt, and the voice came again, shaky. “Rosie?”

Her eyes rolled forward and focused. Her face was wet, and her throat hurt. The RED soldier’s face was flushed and he had flattened himself against the wall. They were laying in a bed. Her bed.

“Rosie, you in there?”

Her heart was screaming in her chest, and she realized her fist was raised.

“Rosie, come on, please don’t do this to me.”

She lowered the fist, shaking her head, and whispered, “He was here.”

“No, Rosie, bad dream.” The Medic had told them which him—the RED team had taken particular care to murder the BLU Soldier creatively any time he poked his head out of spawn. He had actually made good on his threat in the bar and carved the man’s tongue out once, throwing the miserable piece of flesh at the nearest wall and watching the BLU Soldier suffocate in his own blood. _Bad dream, Rosie? We’ve made ourselves into nightmares_ , he thought, guilt welling up like pus from his memories. _No, we can’t blame her. We were nightmares before this_.

“I thought he was here.” She looked down, frowning at the pajamas. “When did I….” There was a confused flash in her head of the Spy kissing her, and an answering warmth in her body that reminded her nauseatingly of her dream. Her eyelids twitched.

 _That twitch. Oh Rosie_ , he begged silently, his throat dry and full of clots. _Don’t think about it_. “No, Rosie, just me.”

“I….” Another flash, the Spy smiling at her with a warmth she’d never seen on his face that bled into the Sniper’s face and the gun resting against her shoulder in the suffocating heat of his nest. The brief sensation of being held gently, someone singing to her. Words from her childhood whispered in her ear and the blurry memory of her grandmother’s house. Home, the place she had been happiest. The Sniper’s face, eyes searching hers and a kiss that went on and on.

She looked over at the Soldier, a terrible suspicion creeping up her spine. He was panting, she realized, sweating and pale. There was a red splotch on one of his cheeks. They were both clothed: he in his fatigue pants, their fit stretched by sleep, and she in a set of flannel pajamas she rarely wore. She was clean—she could smell the shampoo in her hair—but oddly wet. The Cook twitched her hips, lips sliding together then froze. _The dream? Which part was the dream?_ She looked at him, pale with horror.

“Rosie, you hit me pretty hard.” _Don’t think about it, please Rosie. Not now. Don’t think about it now, I can’t… I don’t have anything left to comfort you with._ “I’m…. Don’t do that. I have dreams, bad dreams about my dad.”

The Cook realized that her neck was sore, and poked it with a finger. A rippling corona of pain travelled up her neck. “What happened,” she whispered. “I can’t talk.”

The Soldier looked away. “I’m sorry. He was…” He curled both arms around himself. “I can’t… I’ve gotta go.” He scrambled out of bed, scooting down to avoid any contact with her skin. “I’m sorry. I’ll send the Medic in here.” The Soldier hopped out of bed and ran out of the door, sending it crashing into the wall.

A minute later, the shirtless, shoeless Medic came in with the medigun. He stopped in the door and sighed. “Ah…” _Fractured hyoid, perhaps? Clear hand print around her neck. Whatever foolishness the Spy got up to last night, this isn’t his style._ The Medic winced. _Solly is a bull in a china shop._ “Well, _Kätzchen_ ,” he said drily, “it was a matter of time.”

The Medic flicked a switch on the side of the gun and aimed the beam at her. Even the euphoria of the medigun was not enough to warm her. She could feel something in her neck moving under the beam, sliding back into place with a tiny click that made her want to vomit. The soreness faded from her body. She pulled the covers up to her chin.

“I had a dream,” she said, looking over at him uneasily.

He turned the gun off and lowered the nozzle. “About our friend, the BLU?”

She nodded, eyes wide, small shards of the dream clinging to her.

“And what was he doing?” The Medic winced. _Do not remind her_ . _Why did I remind her_ , he chided himself.

She simply stared at him.

“This will fade with time.” _I am a liar_ , the Medic thought, knife twisting in his gut _. A liar unless she has the evil latent in her that we have in us. Is it there? Would you have been happy if the company had not plucked you from the world and sent you to us?_

“If you are one of us,” he said softly, searching her face, “you will kill him over and over, and it will be better. There will always be nightmares, but it will be better.” _And if you are one of us_ , he added silently, _gott im himmel helfen, ein monster warden sie sich_.

She bit her lip unconsciously, popping it in and out of her teeth, the skin red and swollen, her hair in red, sleep-tangled eddies. Red and green flannel whispered gently against the blanket as she shifted her weight.

 _Und wie Frankenstein,_ he thought unhappily, _warden sie verraten? One does not have to be a large man to wreak havoc._

The Medic shrugged the heavy pack up automatically against its black nylon straps. _It has been a long time since I have read to Alexi at night, so that we could escape together_. His brows met with a frisson of anger. _I cannot think of him as Alexi._ _Kätzchen, damn you, will you entirely break us?_

“What if it doesn’t? What if I keep dreaming about him?” The covers were under her chin as she spoke, and if she had been clutching a doll, the Medic would have thought it no less an exercise in testing his ability to control himself. _Like a child_ , he thought, _seeking comfort from nightmares. Seeking comfort in one nightmare to hide from another_.

The Medic reached once more for the steel of his composure, scrabbling against the caustic burden of knowledge.Grief carved his thoughts, leaving a silent admonishment: _we cannot save you from ourselves, little one._ The silence stretched out long before he had regained enough calm to speak gently. “ _Kätzchen_ , there are things for which I am not good. I am not… I am not much for this kind of comfort. It is hard for me. If you wish to discuss the dream, it is best if you speak to others.”

She pulled her legs to her chest, making a small ball in the blankets, and said nothing. The Medic sighed. “I am sorry, but I am… it is not my best.”

Her eyes slid away from him. She wanted to scream at him—where’s your compassion, doctor? What the hell is wrong with you all—but it was moot. It was all moot, and there was nothing to say.

“You should not brood, _Kätzchen_.”

She did not reply.

“I will send someone in.”

“No,” she said, voice absent and echoing. “Leave me alone.”

“Very well.”

He paused at the door. “It is not well to think too long on it. It is not well to think long on any of it. It will hurt you.”

She looked up at him, eyes glittering under her tangled hair. _Don’t think about it?_ “Fuck,” she hissed, “off.”

The Medic stiffened and left without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Depeche Mode, "Halo"


	19. Chapter 19

Time passed, seconds flowing into minutes, minutes into hours, daylight sending the shadows like a liquid across her ceiling—memory fed her snippets of sound and movement, emotions splashing across the whole thing like thrown paint. She remembered the Spy, the decision to take the pill he’d offered her. She remembered walking to the living room, the Pyro starting a fire, sitting on the couch with the Sniper and Spy. After that, the evening spooled out beyond her into a fog, clearing for scattered seconds then drifting on.

She shifted on the bed with a creak, putting an arm behind her. Several things were clear: someone had used her body while she was checked out of it, but they’d been incredibly gentle. _Does that make it better_ , she thought, oddly numb. _Should I be grateful that they were nice about it?_ She had woken up in bed with the Soldier, fully clothed, his expression hunted. Someone had showered her and dressed her, probably him. The impressions she had were at odds with her entire experience. Emotionally speaking, the night felt warm. Safe. Soothing. _But it wasn’t, was it_ , she thought. Someone or more than one someone had used her body and then sent her to bed. Her memories, the parts that were coherent, spat up the Spy and Sniper. _Where did the Soldier fit into this_ , she thought. _Did he? Why would he have stayed_?

And her dream—she made a choked sound. It was less the memory of the BLU Soldier and more the way her arms had twined around his neck, as if welcoming him. She wanted to peel her entire body open and wash, of all things, the inside of her head.

“I don’t,” she protested to the air above her bed. “I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

She sat up, the bed springs jangling, and put her bare feet on the cold concrete. Sitting on the side of her bed, she looked at the flannel pajamas she was wearing. “Why,” she said, “would he have gone to the trouble to shower me, if he had raped me? There’s no local police department. There’s nowhere to take evidence. There’s no one to talk to.”

Except the RED office, she realized with a belated flinch, but the only thing she’d get there would be money, a fee from the accounts of the mercenaries involved. If, she thought with a surge of despair, she could figure out who’d been involved. She doubted an accusation would matter much—that sort of thing never did. _Maybe that’s it_ , she thought. _Maybe Solly showered me to ensure that I couldn’t make an accusation._

Her toes curled against the floor, chilled, and she watched them for a time, her tangled hair falling around her like a shroud. _I have to_ , she thought. _I have to what? Do something. I have to do something_.

She looked over at the chest of drawers that held her clothing. _What does anyone do_ , she thought, _but get up and try to go on with life_? _Not_ , she added silently, despair sending a shaft through her, _that it’s going to be that easy_. The Cook got up and locked her bedroom door, then dressed herself. Her stomach gurgled and she looked down at it. _Eating_ , she thought, _is no more ridiculous than anything else I could do at this point._

The door to her room eased open, and she peered down the hall, seeing no one. With a sigh, she walked to the kitchen and froze in the door. The Sniper stood with his back to her, waiting to push the plunger down on a full French press. “I can hear you, Birdie,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m going to turn around so we can talk.”

Her fingers dug splinters from the door frame as he turned around and leaned back against the counter. He wore a white t shirt, something much finer in texture than his normal shirts, and a pair of pants that she knew couldn’t have come from his wardrobe—the charcoal grey linen was entirely too expensive. _The Spy_ , she thought. _He’s wearing the Spy’s clothing_.

The Sniper looked her over closely. For someone who’d been strangled a few hours earlier, she was fairly spry and surprisingly unflinching, a sight that filled him with uneasiness and guarded hope: she might even survive if she could just keep bouncing back. She was still wearing an overly hot, long sleeved shirt and heavy jeans, but she could hold his gaze and did: eyes forward, fingers digging into the door, potentially poised to spring but not cringing. _Not confused anymore are you Birdie_ , he thought, relief making him sigh audibly. _That’s okay. Sneak tells me this is a stage, too_. _Bloody formal military training. Keep the bloody pressure on until you crack. We let you have the morning, Birdie, because Solly is a moron. But the rest_ , he thought, an edge of heat traveling his spine, _is mine_.

“Well, Birdie,” he said, arms folded across his chest. “You ready?”

“What,” she said, the words dropping into the space between them like stones, “do you want?” _His eyes are larger without the yellow shades_ , she thought, looking at the fine lines around them—something had been stripped away with his glasses and the expression left behind was raw. With a startled jump, she realized this was his natural face, emotions bare and playing across it like the flicker of a candle: desire and anger burning, and behind them the faintest edge of need. Her face softened, thoughtlessly responding to his vulnerability. She reached forward and his expression flickered again, settling into sullen anger and wrenching from her an answering response as if she were a mirror. _How could you_ , she thought, despair and betrayal like a hole from which some vital part of herself had leaked. _How could you feel this way and do this to me?_

“Don’t get shitty, Birdie. It’s time to play with sharp things.” The girl had reached out, still a civilian, still trying to comfort and appease, still open and vulnerable and easy to hurt, and it had made him wish for a moment that he could afford to reach back. _Don’t,_ he thought. _Don’t give me this, give me your rage, Birdie-girl. Let it out to play._

“Get fucked,” she said, then strode into the kitchen, eyes on him the whole time. She reached past him for a cup and he grabbed her arm. “Back the fuck up,” she growled. _The kitchen is mine_ , she thought. _I’ve earned it. No matter what else you do to me, this will be my space_.

He grinned at her, a hunter now in familiar territory, and dug his fingers into the meat of her arm. “I don’t think so, Birdie. Angry? Good.” He leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, breath caressing her face. “Let’s go fuck each other up.”

She looked at the thin hair on the fingers digging into her arm—an afterimage and surge of warmth, the memory of those fingers stroking her breast—and twisted, pulling back and breaking his grip. _How could you_ , she raged. _How could you do this to me?_

“Wanna play, Birdie,” he asked. “Still feeling like shit? Too bad.” _That’s a girl_ , he thought. _Come on, react to the person invading your space. Defend yourself from me so I can defend myself from you_.

The Cook grabbed for one of the knives in the block and he grabbed her arms, pulling her off balance. “Save it for the gym, Birdie.”

“I am going to fuck you with the sharp end, Snipes,” she snarled.

He laughed, a bark of sound that filled the kitchen, echoing against the white tiles, and let her arms go. “Well come on then, Birdie. Come fuck me.” _Sneak, my lovely_ , he thought with a surge of pride, _you are an artist_.

The Cook looked at him and smiled, teeth bared. He let go of her arms and beckoned, smile vulpine and predatory. She followed, stretching as she walked down the hall and watching his face with the intent expression of someone measuring a foe. Despair warred in her with a strange, boundless rage, as if someone had reached in and removed a part of her. _What’s the worst that could happen_ , she thought. _This is the worst that could happen. It’s still happening and I’m not going to lay here and just let it happen._

The gym itself was a long room with high, slit windows, dim and covered in same leprous paint that filled the base. She supposed that the faded streaks on the walls had once been sporty red stripes—they were now orange with age where they hadn’t peeled away, leaving the pitted gray surface of the cinder blocks behind them. The room stunk with the fetid tang of metal and old sweat, rust darkening the feet of the racks and dappling the machines. She felt like she was getting a staph infection simply standing in it. The Sniper led her to an open space away from the machines, and started to sort through a small pile of knives in their leather sheaths on one of the benches.

“Ever played with real knives,” he said, the leather slithering between his fingers, “or just your cute little kitchen toys?”

She laughed, a bitter cracking sound. _Cute little toys? You fucking asshole_. “You can hurt someone just fine with a kitchen toy,” she replied.

He picked up a kukuri and looked at it, turning the clawed knife in front of him, then put it down. _Too curved_ , he thought. _Too specialized. Pity, it’s a beaut_. “Ever hurt someone with one?”

The Cook watched him sorting through the pile. _Give me a knife_ , she begged him silently. _Just give me a knife and I’ll fuck you with every last inch of it_. “I’ve worked with my share of ex-cons. Sometimes things got interesting at work.”

The Sniper pulled a six inch tanto out of the pile. _Lovely_ , he thought, turning it to catch the light. _Straight, light, rubber grip, perfect for a beginner_. He turned around and tossed it to her. “You ever bleed them, Birdie?”

She snatched the knife from the air by its sheath, and when her hand made contact with it, was surprised to realize that it felt good in her hand, an edge of warmth unfurling in the cold rage that rode her. She flicked open the safety strap and pulled it out— _all the knives_ , she thought. _All the knives I’ve held over the years and all the jobs_. _I’ve been surrounded by knives and I’ve appreciated them as tools for making food_. _This is beautiful. A beautiful tool for killing._ The rubber grip was delicately ruffled to allow sweat to be channeled away from her hand, and the blade light. A slight, elegant curve swept up to chisel point. She let the sheath fall to the floor and turned it to catch the light, looking at the edge where it seemed to disappear in the air.

“Birdie,” the Sniper said, his voice firming and calling her out of her contemplation of the blade. “You ever bleed anyone before?” _Touch of the drug still in her system, maybe_ , he thought, eyes narrowing. _S’all right, Birdie, we’ll work it out of you_.

“I have,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the knife.

She remembered her first job, the man’s face: his smug satisfaction turning to surprise, which soured to acrid fear as the cut opened like a mouth on his arm. Months of threats, months of taking her prep, or humping her when she bent to open the cabinets beneath the line, and finally, her temper splintered like an overloaded beam. She closed the step between them, opening his forearm with a single quick slice. To her surprise, it had been no more difficult than any of the shift’s work and just as bloody.

They had backed off. They had all backed off. And then, when she was sent to the cooler for tomatoes, they locked her in so she could cool off.

Behind the three inch thick door, she had heard the line going on without her, the ever-present bubbling of steamer and soups and sauces, the crackle of flames and the sizzle of flesh muted and gone. She had pulled up a milk crate and sat down in the chill quiet, listening to the fan churning, and waited for them to let her out. When they did, she smiled and thanked them for the break with the satisfaction of knowing they would fear her and the despair of knowing it was the only way to earn respect. The only thing they could offer her was their fear.

 _Wonder what they’d think of me now_ , she thought.

“I gave you a pig sticker to start,” he said, voice taking on an anticipatory purr that reminded her of the Spy. She shivered. “I’ll use a smaller blade, myself. I’d tell you to leave the eyes, but instead I’ll just ask if you know how to end it quickly. Do you, little Birdie? Can you end it quickly if you take me down?” _If she gets that close this time, I’ll eat my fucking rifle for her entertainment_ , he thought, amused. _But she might as well know_.

“I can guess.” She flicked the knife back and forth, scattering light across the wall behind him. He squinted immediately, too many fights teaching him the value of making it hard to be blinded by the scatter.

“Don’t guess. I don’t want to lie there for hours while you play Ripper. If you take me down, cut any of these places.” The Sniper turned a leg to the side and showed her how to find the femoral artery, then gestured to his neck, showing her the jumping cords of his pulse. “And for the love of fuck, don’t just draw your blade across my neck. Turn my head and get one of those directly, in and out.”

He touched his chest, outlining three rough ovals. “The heart is here and lungs are here, but that’s a slow goddamn death and you’ll have to punch through a bunch of tough connective tissue. So put your back into it.”

He turned, looking at her over his shoulder. “From the back, Birdie, there are a few lethal strikes but they’re hard to land.” He reached behind himself and gestured. “The kidneys are here, but you’ll probably clip a rib getting at them. When you go in, give it a second to see if you hit bone and angle up.”

He turned again, to face her. “But I’d rather bleed out than have you hacking at me, trying to find my damn kidneys.”

Her heart hammered in her chest and her mouth went dry. The tanto shivered in her hand, vibrating with her pulse, hand on the knife suddenly sweaty. He swung an arm, the blade in it making idle arcs in front of him.

“Don’t go yellow on me now, Birdie,” he said, the vulpine grin back on his face. “Does it help to be afraid? Should I tell you what the BLU soldier told me, the last time I killed him close? Should I tell you what he wants to do?”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice deepening, “I should show you how to cut your own throat.” His eyes glittered over the blade of his nose. “Should I tell you what I thought about, Birdie, when he told me?” The Sniper’s eyes slid closed for a moment and he shivered for her, his tongue darting out to caress his lower lip. The blade kept moving, making arcs, and he opened his eyes, the pupils blown huge. The Sniper let his eyes slowly work their way down her body, obscene and insulting. “You still gonna fuck me with the sharp end, Honey? He likes to call people honey, doesn’t he?”

Without thought, without intention, without anything but blinding rage, she lunged. The Sniper neatly side-stepped and laid a shallow cut across the back of her knife hand.

“Getting there,” he said, laughter shivering in his voice. “You can use the adrenaline, but you can’t let it rule you.” He circled her slowly. “You’ll always get cranked by the fear, Birdie, but it gets to be an old friend.” _Slowly, Sneak says_ , he thought. _Always slowly. Slower than I can fight because you’re wet behind the ears, Birdie-girl_. _We’ll get you wet all right._

Her hand spasmed around the rubber grip of the tanto, burning, the salt of her sweat mixing with her blood. Rage and despair and a white-hot flame that ate both—something behind her eyes was burning. She could almost smell it. In their ashes, a chill: all that was left was calculation. His leg, there. His arm, there, circling. The knife was there. _Long arms, long legs_ , she thought. _He can get me before I get him_. _But I know how to get close_.

“Come get me, Birdie,” he said, and stood still for a moment with a sneer. “At least make me break a sweat.”

She feinted, and when he turned aside, cut across his leading thigh, parting the linen and making a thin red line.

The Sniper grunted, fire running up his body. _Fast hands. Good girl, Birdie_ , he thought with a surprised twinge of pride, _you’re too small to run at them on the field, but you can fuck them real hard with surprise_. He glanced down quickly at the slacks. _Sneak is going to kill me_.

“It’s a start,” he said looking up at her, smile warming. “You have to think about it a little. Don’t just run in there, study me. Most people, Birdie, they think too much or they think too little. They hesitate, or they rush in like a bull in a china shop. If you want to die less than you kill, you have to think just right.”

They circled each other, the Sniper’s eyes flicking from her face to her shoulders. She mimicked him, watching his shoulders swing.

“You can lie with those, Birdie, but you don’t know how to lie yet. You can lie with your whole body—the eyes, the face, the hips and shoulders. You can make a man think you’re going for one thing and go for the other.” His arm whipped out, slicing her free hand across the palm as she tried to jump back. “But you have to be quick.”

He feinted, and when she swung away, swept his foot across her front leg. She fell on her side, crashing down hard on the concrete floor. She caught herself and rolled, then stabbed out with the blade and missed his foot as he jumped backward. The blade skittered across the floor and rang like a chime, vibrating in her hands.

“Not the best of positions, but good instincts, Birdie. Your whole back is right there, open, though. If you don’t move quickly, this will all be over.”

The Cook threw herself backward, rolling to her feet.

“Fancy. But anything you don’t die from is still good.” He shuffled his feet slightly, the soles of his shoes whispering. “Come again, Birdie. Come again. I’ve got reach on you, but you can still try.”

She watched him move, circling again, his legs and arms alight with a humming tension. There was a moment, just a moment, when his legs crossed to circle, where the cut leg slowed—not quite a limp, but a dip nevertheless.

“Very good,” he said, fighting the urge to shout with glee. “I see what you’re thinking. But can you get close enough to cut me?”

She fell back, and after a second, he came forward a step to pursue her. When she slashed, she grabbed at his knife hand with her free hand, and caught his wrist. He pulled back, easily slipping through the unclotted blood on it, but not before she laid another cut across his weakened thigh with the backhand from her first strike.

The Sniper hissed, then laughed, his face alight with a savage joy. “Scientific. A thinking Birdie might be a live one.” His body tensed, and she had a second’s warning before he made a lightning fast series of slashes, one of which caught her across the stomach, parting the first layer of skin in a shallow cut. He grabbed her knife hand and swept her feet when she stopped to put a hand to her stomach, knocking her down. With a grin, he fell on her, dropping his knife and pinning her at the wrists with both hands.

“I caught you, Birdie. What will you do?”

They looked at each other, panting and slick with sweat. She lunged up, biting, and he leaned back. “Wanna play that way, Birdie? Does it make you feel alive like it does me?” Alive, alive, his nerves arcing inside him, sparks flying— _the hunt is calling me_ , he thought, _and I answer_.

She spat at him. When she tried to bite him again, he leaned back and warbled a high bird call. “Think, Birdie, what can you do?” _Don’t go too deep, Birdie_ , he scolded her silently. _You have to think as well as react_.

“Closer,” she growled.

“It’s a good thought, Birdie. How could you distract someone by getting closer?” He was hard, achingly hard. The sting from the cuts, the squirming body beneath him, the knives and the blood and the knowledge that he had hurt her—the Sniper touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth. _Will you, Birdie_ , he asked silently, head turning slightly to the side and a small smile curving his lips. _It’s the oldest weapon and the best, my sweet. Will you use it instead of giving up?_

She stared into his eyes and gave a slow, rolling writhe, rubbing herself against him, lips still peeled back from her teeth in a rictus that had nothing in common with a smile. The Sniper stared at her, skin burning, his spine one long line of current. The Cook let her knees come apart and wrapped them around him, grinding herself against him, eyes still locked on his.

“Oh Birdie,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “They did find the right girl, didn’t they?”

She let her arms relax under his, a sick warmth roaring through her veins, the desire to bite and to gouge, to hurt and to hear him cry like fireworks between her ears. Some place beyond anger swallowed her up: lust and rage blurring into each other like spilled paint, the color of blood on a moonless night.

The Sniper squeezed, doubling the pulse in her bleeding hands, and had to hold his breath for a moment not to moan at the pain which tightened her eyes. “So,” he said, watching the pinprick of her pupils— _adrenaline_ , he thought, _is the best of all the aphrodisiacs_ —“should I back off tender and trying for a fuck? Then you’ll pick up the knife and do me sharp. Smart Birdie.”

He could feel it too, the mirror of her eyes reflecting, amplifying the live wire between them. _Seconds_ , he thought. _I am seconds from staining these pants, Birdie-girl, and I won’t be staining them alone_.

She pulled her head off the floor slowly, eyes still on his, and he let their lips meet without caring if she intended to bite them off. The kiss was a snarl that they passed like breath between them, crushing and sharp. He pushed her head to the side with his. In her ear, he said, softly, “If I tell you that my thigh stings and my cock hurts, what does it do to you?”

Her answering moan was low and clear, and he could not stop himself from closing his lips over the big vein in the side of her neck to hear her scream as he bit down. Sweat and blood made her wrists slick, her body sliding under his. His cock throbbed and had to draw back, chest heaving. Her fat lidded eyes looked back, glittering, waiting.

The Sniper let go of a hand and quickly swept the knives away. She reached her bloody palm up and jerked at the collar of his shirt, yanking it sideways until it choked him, and smeared her blood across his chest. His nipples were hard under her hand, and the salt of his sweat burned her hand anew. When he let go of the other hand, she shimmied out of her shirt and stared at him. He sat back on his heels, shrugging out of his shirt, eyes dark and wet, growl vibrating in his chest.

She laughed, and he was reminded of the desert hawks that hunted the evening skies, the sound spiraling up in the space between them. His hand snapped out, grabbing the tangled mass of hair behind her to hear her hiss, and towed her in, back into the kiss, back to his bitten lips and hers. He reached down to dip his fingers in the cut on his thigh and smeared it across her chest and up, forcing his fingers between them to add blood to the kiss. _The hunter, the hunter, the hunter_ , his thoughts chimed. _There is no prey here, lady-love. Destroy me, I will destroy you, and we will die together_.

He moaned into her mouth, pulling his fingers away to gather two hands full of her hair, teeth pulling at her lip. She reached behind herself for support as he bore down on her, palming one of the knives which had been scattered. He swayed back, pulling her into his lap, and she slid the knife into the back pocket of her jeans before wrapping her arms around him.

“I need,” he hissed and stood, pulling her to her feet. She was panting, bloody. _Perfect_ , he thought. “Outside. Walk or I’ll drag you.”

Her smile was jagged and full of edges, and he unsnapped her bra, throwing it over his shoulder. Dipping his fingers in his leg again, he painted them across her chest, snagging and savagely pulling her nipples in the process to hear her groan. He laced his fingers through hers and led her from the room.

The Spy emerged from the kitchen as they walked past. He looked at them—half naked, bloody, and slick with sweat—and leaned on the doorway. The Spy tipped his coffee mug to them, one predator to another, and said nothing in that perfect state of stillness mastered by soldiers and criminals.

The Sniper led her out of the base, away into the desert, silent under the midday sun.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

A few hundred yards from the base, an outcrop of rocks hid a shallow basin in the rock, shaded by the rocks above it. He led her to the basin, pulling gently until they stood next to a long, waist high rock. Wordlessly, he knelt and pulled her jeans from her. She helped him to angle the knife in her pocket away from him and keep it hidden. He pulled the slacks, sticky with sweat and blood, from his own lean thighs, and pushed her down on the cold rock. He looked at her for a moment that way—naked, bloody, red hair pooling on the rock, chest heaving, eyes wide—and shivered. The wind was painfully chilled in the shadows, the pain adding another layer of sparks to the roaring fire in his head. Keeping her eyes with his, he guided himself into her. She was wet, clutching at him, legs squeezing him painfully as she goaded him, fingernails raking his back.

“Mine,” he whispered, digging his fingers into her hips and leaving bloody arcs in her skin.

He pulled himself almost all of the way out of her, looking at the violence on her face, waiting for her surprise when he thrust himself back in with a slap. She threw her head back and screamed, gouging her fingers into the cords on either side of his spine. He laughed and did it again, then reached behind himself to pin her wrists to the rock.

“Mine,” he said again, and this time she laughed, her thighs tightening to fuck herself on him.

He yelled, head back, the sound echoing on the rocks behind them. When he looked down with a savage grin, he accompanied it with another thrust that made a flat smack in the desert silence. One flat smack became another, a continuous wet pounding that filled the bowl of rock around them. Her eyes rolled back in her head, head curving back and lifting her breasts up like an offering. He let go of her wrists to dig his fingers into them and she laced her fingers around the back of his skull, grabbing a handful of hair to keep his head there, teeth set in the pale curve of her breast.

The pain ran through them both, an exquisite barbed thing that stole all thought. She released his hair and he ran his hands under her ass to lift her up, fingernails buried in her skin. The wet heat around him clamped down, blood pooling on the rock beneath them from the gaping cut in her stomach, his thigh, and her hands.

The orgasm went through her like a knife and she screamed, the high sound of it spilling him into her, their pulses joined where they were. He stayed that way, looking down at the blood, the bruises, her swollen lips and the smile still on them, loathe to pull away. She looked up at him, satisfaction curling her lips, eyelids swollen, body warm but not spent.

“Mine,” he said again, voice husky, and she let her hips move in a wave to watch him flinch slightly, oversensitive. He grinned like a boy at her satisfaction, lowering her back to the rock and letting himself slide out of her. When he reached down for his pants, she reached down for hers, pulling the knife from it and clicking it open. He looked at it.

They paused. She laid a long cut across his stomach where he’d left one on hers. He hissed and let her do it.

“Mine,” she said.

His cock stirred again. “And what, Birdie, will you do with me?” 

Knife in hand, she reached up for him and he sank down. She kissed him, the cold steel kissing his neck, and he was hard again. He opened his eyes and drew back. She had a funny little smile on her face. The knife was still at his neck. He reached for her slowly and slid two fingers into her, waiting. She squeezed him and he smiled. “Always,” he said, making it a question. “Always hungry?” _Do you recognize it_ , he asked her silently. _Do you remember?_

She turned her head to the side, pressing the knife until it stung him, but he did not draw back. They considered each other. _No_ , he thought, _she doesn’t remember or she’d cut my throat now_. He wasn’t sure if he didn’t want her to.

The Sniper raised his chin, daring her, fingers curling and flexing inside her. “How close,” he whispered, “will you let me get you before you cut my throat?” He could feel her tighten and licked his lower lip.

She let the knife fall and he put a square thumb on her clit, the fingers that held a rifle all day flexing on that spot, pushing until the tremors started in her knees. The Sniper put his free hand on her chest and pushed her down, leaning forward and taking the knife from her limp hand.

When it broke over her, he put a carefully thin line across her throat as it strained, then closed the knife. He slid his fingers out of her, arms hanging limply by his sides, sweat matting his hair and falling in fat drops from his fingertips. After a moment of silence, he handed her jeans to her and reached down to pull the slacks on. With a wry smile, he gave the knife back. “Say what you want, Birdie,” he said, his voice hoarse, “about what the Spy did last night, but in his own way he is an artist.”

Her eyes darted over at him, contempt flashing across her face, cold rage still echoing between her ears. “It was already there. I was just….”

The Sniper finished the sentence for her. “You were trying to be civilized. That’s what happens when you live in the city. Don’t bother for us, Birdie-girl.” He paused, lips quirking up. “We’re not really civilized.” He pulled up the zipper on the slacks. “We’re also contagious.”

He let her pull her jeans back on and reached for her hand. After a moment, she let him lace his fingers through hers. He squeezed gently, and laid a kiss on the back of the hand he held. _Mine_ , he thought. _A little more, Birdie-girl, every day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, “Do You Love Me”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture provided by the lovely digitalartnix: http://digittleartnix.tumblr.com/

The Sniper looked down at his legs, eyeing the cuts in his thigh as they walked. _Neck, stomach, and thighs_ , he thought, absently touching them with his free hand, _good thing I didn’t tell you I’d offer to eat my rifle if you managed._ He looked over at her, looking at the browned rivulets on her stomach, neck, and down the back of her hands. A warm tingle ran up his spine and he smiled— _I’ll be keeping that memory for later, Birdie_ , he thought. He pulled her hand up and she looked over at him, a small frown on her face. “I think I’ll keep mine,” he said, voice still languid with the afterglow, “but you might want to go see the Medic before you make dinner.”

The Cook looked the hand he was still clasping. Her palm was a mass of scabs and crusted blood, ground in sand and small fragments of rock. Her knife hand had scabbed more cleanly, but was still dirty. Her stomach was a hot line of pain. “My back hurts,” she said, a question in her voice.

The Sniper ducked back to look at it—a large patch of skin on the top of her back was scraped and raw. “You’ve got a bit of a… rock burn. You’d better go see Nursie.”

Her stomach clenched painfully. “I don’t know if he’ll help.” She looked over at the Sniper. “I think I pissed him off earlier.”

The Sniper ruffled his sweat-matted hair. “Better go fix that. Nursie’s not a good man to have angry at you for long.” _Shower_ , he thought, preoccupied. _And perhaps a bit of Sneak_. He looked down. _Or not. He liked these slacks._

She sighed. When they walked into the base, she headed bare-chested to the surgery without him, catching the Scout coming out of his room. The Scout looked her up and down, stopping in his doorway. “I see you started knife practice with Sniper from the blood stripes. I think you missed a few spots with the knife there.” He reached out and tweaked a nipple before she could stop him. “At least you didn’t cut those.”

The Cook stared at him, levelly. “This might be a bad time, Scout.” _I swear to fuck_ , she thought, anger re-igniting with surprising ease, _I will strangle you_.

He held his hands up and smiled at her, a corner of his lower lip between his teeth. “No offense, toots.” _I ain’t gonna smile_ , he thought. _I ain’t gonna do it, I’m going to wait until she leaves_. _Only Sniper could start with knife practice and end with fucking in the desert_. _Surprised she’s not wearing a dead animal._

She turned and kept walking, pushing open the surgery doors to find the Medic working on a pile of papers. He looked up once, saw her, and went back to his paperwork, the pen scratching gently on the paper. The Cook grabbed a bedside chair and pulled it to the desk, then sat quietly, waiting for him. The blood had flaked as it dried and was itchy. She absently picked at the embedded stone chips, brushing dirt, blood flakes, and fragments of stone onto the floor.

The Medic made a quietly disgusted grunt, but said nothing, still staring at the charts in front of him _. I do not want to know_ , he raged silently. _Is it not enough that Alexi’s nightmares are back? And I am thinking of him as Alexi again because of you, because he pitied you. Could you not have stayed simply another employee of RED? Could you not have managed to avoid getting kidnapped?_

She raked her fingers through her hair, dislodging more dirt, bits of wood, and stone. _You will acknowledge me_ , she commanded silently. _Look up and see the mess I’m making._

His shoulders hiked, crawling up toward his ears, but he remained quiet, pen still scratching away at the paper. The tearing sound of a page turning was unmercifully sharp. The Heavy walked in from the bedroom, took one look at the Medic’s shoulders and the half-naked Cook staring at him, and sighed. The Heavy opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and left the room.

The Cook settled back in the chair, sitting carefully to avoid the raw patch on her back, and made herself comfortable for a long wait. It took only a few more minutes before the Medic spoke, his voice trembling with effort. “Can I help you, _Fräulein_?”

“I am sorry,” she said, struggling to keep the anger out of her voice, “for this morning.”

He looked at her over the small disks of his lenses. “Is that so. And why would you be sorry?” _You cannot_ , he added silently, _possibly understand the ways in which you should be sorry._

She shifted, sitting up, and closed her eyes, grinding her palms against her filthy pants to distract herself from the spill of rage that prickled her skin. “You were trying to help.” _Apologize_ , she told herself. _Just apologize, get healed, and go_.

“ _Nein_ , _Fräulein_ ,” he said, voice harsh. “I was helping.” He put the pen down slowly and pulled his hand from it with comical care. “And you were being... difficult.”

She dug her fingers into her cut palm, starting a trickle of blood beneath the half-moons of her fingernails. “I’ve been a bit stressed.”

He snorted. “A bad dream. You are very delicate, _Kätzchen_ , if a little dream bothers you so.” _Nothing_ , he raged in the silence of his head. _You understand nothing of what you’ve done to Alexi, to me, nothing of the trouble you leave in your wake. We are patchwork men, and you run rampant through us, ripping us to shreds._

The Cook’s teeth ground together. “Delicate,” she said, the word shattering the last fragments of her self-control. Her mind burned and she reached out with her bloody palm and smeared it across the charts, ruining the last several hours of work. “Nursie,” she spat, “you could not possibly understand what I’m going through.”

The Medic stood up, knocking his chair over with a bang. He reached across the desk and pulled her body over it by the upper arms. “Do not ever,” he hissed, twin red spots burning high in his cheeks, “use that name on me. Did you need another lesson today, _Kätzchen_?”

He looked down at the mud, blood, sand and rocks. “Tell me, _Fräulein_ ,” he said, voice like the heart of winter, “do you like the  _tier_? Do you like being his animal?” He shook her, cutting the inside of her mouth on her cheek. “I will fix the hands, little beast, but you will come back later if ever you wish my help again.”

Shocked by the speed and intensity of his reaction, she simply stared at him. His face was contorted, the normal down-turned lines of his frown and eyes gone, leaving a gleeful, demonic mask in its place— _he is livid_ , she thought, too drained to do anything but stare.

The Medic let go, toppling her backward into her chair. “You will not get the gun. For you, it will be regular medicine.” He turned, coat flaring, and walked to a cabinet. The Medic yanked the doors open and pulled a tall, brown bottle, a slim roll of tape and a roll of gauze from it, then pointed at the metal sink on the near wall.

The Cook watched him warily as she crossed the room, watching his nostrils flare, chest laboring under his shirt and pressing the mat of black hair beneath it against the cotton. The Medic wrenched open the cold tap and grabbed her hands, pulling them under the pounding spray. Liquid pain sizzled up her arms, and he watched her face. She stilled her face with effort and stared back, rage narrowing her eyes. The urge to pull her arms back made them tremble and she held them, rigid, under the spray.

The Medic laughed and let go, then turned off the taps. Opening the tall brown bottle, he poured it over her hands. The pain flashed behind her eyes in a concussive white flash and she could not stop herself from gasping. She felt before she saw his sense of satisfaction and looked down at the foam spilling down her fingers into the sink. He watched the foam, still pouring, for a few seconds, before pulling the bottle back and capping it.

The Medic wrapped her hands gently, still smiling at her with a nasty smile. “This should allow you to make dinner. Do not bother to dress if you intend to pay me your debt, _Fräu_.” He pushed his hair back and looked down at her. “I will let you choose the night, but you will make what you have done up to me before I help you again.” He gave her a courtly, mocking nod—archaic and oddly fitting. “And now, you should get to dinner.”

She surprised herself with a curtsey, a movement she had only seen done in movies, her bare breasts bobbing gently. Her smile was equally mocking. “Because they hired me, grandfather.”

“They did not hire you to fuck us,” he said, watching her breasts bob. “That you do because you like it.”

They looked at each other.

“Honesty, Nursie?” The despair that blew through her was bitter and familiar. “Anything else you want to say?” _Anything else you want to blame me for_ , she asked silently.

“Why should I lie to you,” he said. “Anything else I have to say will wait. Go.”

She left, hands flexing in their bandages.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The walk to her room was mercifully solitary. The cut on her stomach ached—deep, hot, worrisome—and the edges itched. Her back was a mass of heat that she was afraid to scratch. She walked to a drawer and opened it, looking at the t shirts and through them. She reached out for a shirt, then stopped. Rage warred with despair, and for a brief, dark second, she wanted to rip herself open and spill something out—a nameless desire to burn and destroy, saturated in lust. She kicked off her shoes and stood, naked but for her jeans, breathing heavily.

She was drowning, dissolving, dying.

The Cook closed the drawer slowly, gentle with self-control, and walked to the kitchen like a swimmer walking the sea bed. Slowly, drifting in self-loathing, she went to the refrigerator and started to remove packages and bottles. The sizzle and bubble of cooking was subsumed by the sound of blood rushing in her ears, and she slowly plated the food and walked it to the table.

She sat, blankly staring at the food, and the smell bought the mercenaries from their rooms.

“Dinner time,” the Engineer called over his shoulder. “Uh, hey there Missy.” _Why_ , he thought, bewildered, _is she sitting at the table shirtless and bloody?_ He crossed the room quietly and stood behind her, looking at the raw mess of her back. Turning to the Sniper, he said, “I don’t know what the hell you did out there, but you fucked something up good.”

The Sniper slid into the seat next to her, grinning. “I fucked something, and it was good.” He reached out for the bandages, running a finger along them. “I see Nursie was annoyed at you.” Following the bandages and her arm up, he reached the expression on her face. _Bloody fucking hell_ , he thought. He turned her head, fingers on her chin, to look at him. “Birdie,” he called softly. “Come back.”

The Spy swore and slammed his hands on the table. “You told her to go see the Medic? Monsieur tragic-war-stories? Herr I-will-not-shut-up-about-my-morality?” Swearing sulfurously in mangled French, he started to pace behind her, incoherent in rage.

The Medic paused in the door. _Did I disrupt your plans, jackals_ , he thought. _Good_ . “I see the _Fräu_ and I have an appointment tonight. Do not mind her. We have a matter to discuss.” He sat at the other end of the table and started to serve himself. The Heavy sat down next to him, scowling.

“Hey Doc,” the Scout said, “don’t do nothin’ you can’t fix.”

The Cook shook herself like a dog, taking a deep breath, and looked up. “I’ll be all right.” _No, I’m not_ , a little voice in her head screamed. _I’m not fine and I’ll never be fine again_.

The Medic merely smiled into his soup.

The Demo grabbed a plate. Loading it, he went back to his room.

“You know, that looks like a good idea,” the Engineer said. Loading a plate, he left the table.

The Scout looked around the table. “Well shit, this is starting to get complicated.” He looked over at the Cook. “Toots, I don’t know what’s going on, but be careful.” He snagged several rolls and left the dining room.

“I don’t know what you have in mind, Docteur,” the Spy said, his accent thickening with frustration, “but I think one of us should be present.” He lit a cigarette, putting down the lighter and picking up the wine glass. “I will do it.” _If nothing else_ , he added silently, _to keep you from undoing my hard work. Beat her. Hurt her. Just don’t let her think. Not at this stage_.

The Medic did not bother to look up. “I think not,” he said, voice wry with amusement. “The _Fräulein_ and I have something private to discuss.”

The Spy stopped pacing long enough to stab his cigarette out into his plate with a snarl. “Do not go too far, bureaucrat.”

“We may have a few things in common,” the Medic said, eyes cold, “but I will make you regret it if you cross me.”

The Sniper cleared his throat. “Look, Nursie, don’t push it. You’ve got that look on your face, and I spent too much time trying to fix things for you to fuck it up again.”

The Cook put her bandaged hands flat on the table and stood— _I can’t_ , she thought, letting it trail off into a ringing emptiness between her ears.

The Spy grabbed her wrist as she turned to go, fingers hard. “ _Vipere_ , this may not be a good time to play with the Docteur. I do not know what you think he is, but I have seen what the man can do.” _There is no man so cruel_ , he added silently, _as a man who believes he is moral_.

She twisted her wrist, pulling it from his grip, and stared at him, then walked out of the room. As she left, she heard the Spy spit. “We could have done this with pleasure, but no—you are all determined to make it pain.” She kept walking, slowly losing the thread of his voice, reaching the surgery and pushing through its doors to sit down on an exam bed.

The Cook waited, head achingly full. Moments flashed through it like snippets of film: friends in her home town who stopped talking to her. Boys and men in the town who seemed to sprout hands every where, and her mother and father no longer touching her at all, a sere world that she took the first trucker’s offer to escape. The sight of the BLU heavy falling, knee blown off, and the surprisingly bright red of his blood. The BLU soldier’s head exploding, the feel of his finger on her foot and the weight of the collar. Flashes of the night before. Waking up in bed with Solly. Helplessness. Violence. Death. Her skin was full to the brim of memory and there was no one and nothing to save her from the endless replay.

The Medic took his time over dinner, letting the room clear. The Heavy left with an irritated snarl and a warning not to fuck the girl while he was hurting her. In the infirmary, he locked the door behind him and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on the tree near the door. He looked over at her—the girl sat, feet dangling off the ground and staring at them, the silence no doubt filled with whatever memories kept her eyelids flickering though her gaze was rooted to her dangling feet.

“Come, _Kätzchen_ ,” he said, not ungently. “To the bathroom.” He rolled up his sleeves, folding the crisp white cotton back from muscular forearms, and walked through the bedroom doors. She followed, still drifting. _I will do you something of a kindness tonight_ , he thought sardonically, _but you will not thank me for it_. _Whether they realize it or not, you have hit the crisis and they cannot fuck it out of you_ , _they can only push it off_. _But you, masochist that you are, need to do penance. And the pain,_ he added, a warm shiver running through his body, _I owe you for the trouble you have caused_.

In the bathroom, he turned on the shower and put the lid down on the toilet, sitting back to rest himself against the back of the seat. He eyed her, lip curling in disgust. “Dirty, dirty animal. You have left your filth all over my surgery. First, you will bathe.” He pointed to the shower. “Go.”

She mechanically peeled the stiff, crackling denim from her thighs and stepped under the warm spray. To her left, a small tray held a handful of familiar bottles. She wet her hair, hissing as the dirt trickled down her skin, then leaned into it, her body going limp. The Cook put her bandaged hands, soaked and stinging again, against the wall of the shower and stood, swaying, under the spray.

“And will it wash off, _Kätzchen_ ,” he called, voice deliberately pleasant and light. He paused, and her memories filled the silence. _Never_ , he answered silently. _It will never wash off. You will remember pulling that trigger until you die._ “I think not,” he said, tone darkening into a snarl. “Use the soap, animal.”

She jumped, then opened a bottle, lathering with something that smelled sharp. The foam that hit her back opened it like a door, pain reaching through with fire. The Cook whimpered, sound swallowed by the spray.

“Well?” His booted foot tapped against the tile floor, an audible reminder that she was on borrowed time. She ran her fingers through her hair to check for shampoo and turned off the water, opening the curtain. The Medic looked at her with an expression of mild annoyance. “Do not bother with clothes. You will only make yourself filthy again. Dry off.”

Her shoulders hunched forward as she dried off, passing the towel roughly over herself and squeezing her damp hair before slinging it over her shoulders. The air was chilly, and her nipples tightened with a spiteful wrench. He watched her, letting his eyes idly roam her body—the goose flesh, the tight nipples, the servile cringe. _You called me grandfather_ , he thought, taking a perverse enjoyment in it. _And here you are, little girl, asking me for yet another favor_.

“Beasts do not walk, _Kätzchen_. Down.” He stood and watched her kneel down, then put her hands on the floor and wince. He turned and left the room, and she followed, crawling, her hair dripping a trail on the floor by her wet hand prints. The Medic stopped by his desk and sat down, patting his knee. She crawled to it and sat on the floor, unsure what to do or say.

“What do you want from me, _Kätzchen_ ,” he said, tilting his head to consider her down turned face, eyes cool. _Say it_ , he urged her silently. _Take this part of the responsibility for yourself._

She started to sob quietly, staring at the leather of his boots.

He reached for her hair and pulled her head up, wrapping her hair around his fist. “Where is your head, _Kätzchen_? I can see the hate, the self-blame. I can see the burden. Would you like me to help you?”

The tears in her eyes made them feverish, shimmering, and her mouth worked, mute. He set the back of a hand gently against the side of her face, and when she leaned into it with her eyes closed, slapped her once, high on the cheek. “That, he said, “is for being rude.”

She wrapped her arms around his boot and closed her eyes, resting her head on his knee. The Medic chuckled, a wicked sound. “ _Bitte helfen sie mir, gro_ _ßvater_ , eh?” He leaned in close, his eyes wide in false cheer. “Did you want grandfather to take it away?”

The Cook looked at him, tightening her arms.

“ _Gro_ _ßvater_ _sagen was sie wollen,_ _Kätzchen._ What,” he said, voice sharp, “do you want me to do?” The hand in her hair wound tighter, pulling her chin up to look at the hostility on his face. _Say it_ , he urged her silently. _Say it out loud so that you will know what you have asked for_.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered.

“Do you not,” he asked, a smile crooking one of the corners of his mouth. “But how could you know. You make our lives difficult and you do not understand why.”

Her eyebrows met and she glared at him.

“Ah, there it is,” he said drily, “the rage. Shall I tell what you’re becoming?” He fought the urge to cup her face, to feel with his hands the exquisite pain the answer would bring her, and leaned down to bring his face close to hers. “We are making you into one of us, all for our own reasons, _Kätzchen_ ,” he said softly, looking at the mixture of confusion and horror on her face. The Medic let his eyes drift down, shrouding them with his eyelashes. “Do you know,” he murmured, “what you will be when the _tier_ has finished shaping you?”

She hissed, the little hairs on her arms standing up.

“ _Sie werden ein tier sein_ , little girl. Lusting. Angry. Violent. While you still have guilt,” he said, lips just brushing hers, slick with her spit, “you still have a soul.” The Medic shuddered—pain, the years since he’d touched a woman, her yielding response, the sight of her crawling through his room—“you are fortunate,” he said, voice thin with tension, “that I have some semblance of guilt.” _No_ , his conscience said to him, _you have more than a semblance, but it is not enough to save you_.

The Cook looked his face, hovering just above hers. “Please,” she finally said. “I can’t find myself anymore.”

“And how,” he said, drawing back slightly, “can I help you do that?”

She reached up for him, but he refused to let her draw him down.

“How,” he said, voice thickening, “will fucking you help you find yourself?” _Do not think for a moment_ , he thought, a tremor running up his arms, _that grandfather is not thinking about taking you up on it and simply having a fight with Alexi later_.

At that, she wept. He let her for some time, hand still wrapped in her hair, wetting his knee. When she ran out of tears, he spoke, mild curiosity coloring his tone. “Is crying enough, _Kätzchen_? Have you found yourself yet?” She drooped and he let her hair go with a sharp breath, fighting himself not to pick her up and hurt her. The Cook looked up, reddened eyes searching, arms still wrapped around his knee.

“Well,” he asked, cocking an eyebrow, and waited.

“No,” she whispered, tears clotting in her voice.

“Unlike our friends, I will offer you a choice,” he said. “What you want is to leave, but you cannot. What our friends the Spy and Sniper want is to make you one of us. A few of us want you to have feelings for us.”

“What do you want,” she whispered.

“For you never to have come,” he said, voice sibilant with hate. “Do you know what destroys us about you, _Kätzchen_ ? We cannot protect you from ourselves. We cannot protect you from each other. We have only the ability to make you one of us. We are a blight, _Kätzchen_ , and we will eat you up.”

The Medic took a calming breath. “Here is the choice: will you take a role in your shaping or will you let them remake you as they wish?” He could see it in her eyes, the idea sinking in. “Beast or woman, _Kätzchen_?”

“Woman,” she said, tentatively.

“Do you not know?”

"Woman.”

“There is something else,” he said, fighting to keep the anticipation out of his voice. “There is something else teeming behind those eyes. _Was stört deine seele,_ _Kätzchen?_ What,” he took a breath, “have you been struggling not to admit?” He looked down—the girl was wide-eyed, terrified, breath shallow, clinging to his knee—his hands were trembling. “Say it,” he said. “What is it that you crave?”

She squeaked, burying her head against his leg. He jiggled it, pulling his knee away from her. “There is nowhere to hide in here,” he said relentlessly and stood, towering above her, amused by the dramatic irony of it as only someone with an actor’s soul could be.

“What,” he said, his boots clicking on the floor as he circled her, “do you crave?”

She whispered the answer and he heard it.

“As long as you hide from it, _Kätzchen_ , you make of it a weapon for anyone to take up, and they will take it up.” He bent at the waist, reaching down to cup her skull and pull her up, fingers like steel in her hair. The Medic drew her up until she was standing on the edges of her toes.

“What you want,” he whispered, “this is a good place to find, but you must be careful who you choose to give yourself to and how. The Spy will steal,” he said, lips brushing her cheek. “The Sniper will take,” he said, running his cheek against hers. “The Engineer misses his wife. The Scout simply wants to fuck. The Soldier,” he said against her neck, “has no idea what he wants, and the Pyro wants to be your friend. The Demo,” he said, lips feathering against her pulse, “wants to be loved. They speak so loudly, _Kätzchen_ , as you do, spilling their desires sloppily all over the world around.”

Her eyelids drifted shut. “What do you want,” she whispered.

He drew the tension out in silence, an exquisite hunger sending barbed roots through him, before answering. “To eat you up,” he said, lips on her ear to feel her shiver. “But I will not. Not unless you tell me what you want. And I will never,” he said, drawing back to look at her while he said what his instincts goaded him to say, “love you.”

Her breath was ragged, eyes wide and rimmed in white, salt, sweet, and musk rising around her like a cloud. And like a key in a lock, he realized why she had been sent. _Helen_ , he thought, _what have you done?_ The room brightened as his pupils dilated, fingers tightening until he could feel hairs breaking beneath them, the pain pulling from her a small gasp as she teetered on the edge of her toes. He wanted to eat it from her mouth, that little pain sound, and realized he was panting like a runner. And she simply yielded there, standing as he had put her, moving as he had moved her, enduring with every evidence of joy in it. _The fracture lines it would take to make her_ , he thought, awed. _Tying lust to pain and loveless cruelty._ _Helen, you didn’t just find a masochist, you found_ _a_ —hunger roared through him, obliterating the rest of the thought.

The Medic smiled, lips curling back into a particularly sharp grin. “If I tell you to go through those doors, will I be speaking to the beast or the woman?”

When he let go of her hair, she sank down onto all fours. “Very well,” he said. He walked to the bedroom and held the door open for her to crawl through it, then through a second, small door. “Mischa is skilled with wood,” he said and patted a crossed set of massive beams, sunk into the ceiling and floor of the room. “Up, animal.”

She crouched, then stood, holding up her wrists for the cuffs set on short chains from the beams.

“Closer,” he said, breath shallow, control teetering on the edge of mania.

She inched closer, face pressed to the beams, and he closed the shackles.

“Struggle.” He hissed the word and it echoed in the room.

The Cook pulled tentatively, then harder, the sudden wash of fear pushing the litany of her despair from her head. The short chains on the cuffs clattered and pulled, and she threw herself backward, stopping only inches from the wood. Behind her, she heard something clinking. The Medic stretched, then opened a footlocker. She turned her head side to side, trying to find the source of the sound, but could only see the wood in front of her. “They hold Mischa,” he said, leaning forward so that his breath would brush the side of her face. “You will not get out of them.”

The first blow whistled through the air, and what felt like a fist hit her back, the tails thudding into her. The Medic loosened his wrist and struck again, the tails wrapping and leaving a line of sizzling pain along her side. The pain bloomed across her raw skin and she shook.

“I am quite angry, _Kätzchen_. Very angry.” Another strike whistled through the air, making her nerves echo like a bell. “And I will not be treated as you would treat one of _the_ m.”

The tails hissed like a snake, pain bleeding up from somewhere deep within her back, and she opened her arms to it like a lover.

“I will not be spoken to that way, not by you or anyone. I will not be disrespected, will not be—” she heard him take a deep breath, and then the only sound was the sizzle, the smack of the tails on the meat of her body, and the sound of their gasps.

The pain became an endless thing, a rippling force than ran through her like lightning, carrying her thoughts, her fears, the limitless poison of self-loathing, everything running through her and grounding somewhere else. Her breath flowed through her, empty, her whole body empty, mind empty, flowing out of her. Their breaths seemed to merge, becoming seamless, a strange organism made up of two bodies, each reaching for something.

Behind her, she could hear him gasping, winded, and the pain stopped. She realized that she was also gasping, sagging against the wood, soaking wet with sweat and the warm trickle of her blood. There was a clatter, and heat behind her, a body against hers whose salt made the empty space behind her eyes white with fire. The Medic hissed, fingers digging into her wrists just below the cuffs. “Do you understand, _Kätzchen_? Do you understand why you are dangerous to us?”

His skin ached and tingled, crawling with the desire to be inside the body he had just wounded, the body he had made wet. He stood, pressed to her with his eyes closed, her blood soaking the fabric between them. _All I have to do_ , he thought, _is reach down with a single hand_. His grip tightened on her wrists and she moved, grinding her ass across him.

“You are dangerous,” he said, head tilted back, breath ragged, “because you are a perfect vessel for our desires.” His hips moved once, and she moved with him, sending liquid fire through the soaked cotton of his slacks. “Because the parts of you that would have learned to love have learned to fuck and yet you keep hoping, searching to be loved, promising everything any of us want.”

He moved again, feeling her raise up on her toes to get him closer to her cunt, and shivered. “You are dangerous because you will make us feel what we cannot allow ourselves to feel.”

“You make us,” he hissed, hips sliding against her, “raw.”

The Medic threw himself backward with a sharp exhale, staggering, and looked away. “I will not do it,” he said. “You wanted a penance, _Kätzchen_ , whether you knew it or not, and you were willing to pay. I will unlock you. Get the hell out before I do something I will regret.”

He pulled a chain out of his shirt and unlocked her. When she reached for him, he scurried behind a padded bench. “Get out,” he roared. “ _Raus, vor ich vergesse ich habe eine seele_!”

When she ran out the doors to the surgery, the Heavy stopped her by grabbing her arm. Standing her still, he turned the medigun on her. She looked up at him, dumbly, while the gun closed the cuts and scrapes, bleaching the bruises from her back.

“ _Mышка_ ,” he said drily, “I am not hampered by desire for women, so it must be me that says it. It is not that you are bad, it is that you are not hard. They do not know how to treat you, and in their confusion, you pull from them things they would rather forget.” The Heavy’s eyes narrowed. “But do not mistake for love what is hunger. He does not respect you enough for love. Now, go.”

She left.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Cook didn’t bother with clothing, instead collapsing on her bed and fumbling her blanket up to cover her shoulders. Despite the medigun, her bones ached as if the pain had somehow sunk beneath the skin and was etched on them. The room was quiet but for the rattling of a distant fan in the heating ducts—nothing to distract her from the litany of the Medic’s words, her body still ringing and echoing with the warm lethargy of pain and hunger.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be…. I should just….”

His words sank into her, a mirror that reflected an absence where her heart should have been. “I’m empty,” she said, words tumbling like stones from her lips. “I am empty and broken.” The word echoed louder and louder, tearing a hole in her that memory gushed out of: turned away faces in her hometown, a dreadful joy in her father’s face as he beat her, men like a thicket of hands as puberty grated away the signs of her childhood, her face turned to the wall when—she shuddered, the familiar weight of guilt crushing down on her shoulders.

And the Demo, kneeling on her bed, telling her that she could not care, telling her that she was a doll they were using, that she had made herself a doll.

“I open my arms to them,” she said. “I open my arms to them because I want to be loved, because I want to stop thinking and simply pretend they care.” She took a breath, the acid of her thoughts hollowing her out.

“How very, perfectly stupid of me. How very perfectly like me.” Unfelt tears streaked down her face, blurring the ceiling above her into a mass of white. “How many times do I have to make this mistake?”

Her lovers answered, years of hearing the same word— _sick_. They had called her sick, some part of her running over and over to pain as if coming home. The ones who hadn’t left, she’d run from, sensing in them a devouring hunger that could cost her anything, everything, leaving her lonely again.

Loneliness. The key that turned her into a wild thing was loneliness, but she had to run, had to get away from anyone who might ask more from her than her arms, her legs wrapped around them and the transient joy of simply existing, not plagued my memory, or guilt, or the fear of failure, or any other of the monsters that haunted her. “If still feeling guilty means I have a soul, Medic,” she hissed, “I have enough soul for the whole base. I know more about guilt than—”

Her memory interrupted her: the Sniper’s face above hers, pleasure eating away doubt, fear, and anything but a need so profound that she realized she would do anything to feel it again, that she ached to pick up the knife again, to settle the weight of the rifle in the hollow of her shoulder and pull the trigger. She had no words to describe the feeling. No drug as a metaphor, no substance she had ever taken could touch the ache of a desire that made her feel like a wire stretched between earth and heaven.

 _His face in the nest_ , she realized, fingers over her mouth. _This is how he feels when he kills, how I felt when we cut each other_.

The Cook gagged, bile pushing at the back of her throat. “I’m a fucking monster,” she whispered. “They’ve made me a fucking monster.”

And in reply, some unnamed part of herself whispered back— _it was always there. Your lovers saw it. Your family saw it. These men merely gave you room to let it out_. She realized she was cackling, a bitter, wild sound that splintered and echoed through the room, her pulse hazing in front of her eyes. The terrible laughter twisted her voice, hoarsening it and she gagged again.

Outside her door, the Soldier leaned against the wall, listening, his face drawn in long, heavy lines. He put his head gently against the wall, hands flat beside it.

“Maybe, Rosie, we’re too alike,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Her laughter cracked, turning to racking sobs, and he flinched, then pushed away from the wall and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Fever Ray, "Stranger Than Kindness"


	21. Chapter 21

The Cook rose long before dawn, the shards of sleep she’d grasped filled with the BLU Soldier’s face, a kiss that boiled her blood, and a graphic vision of herself hunting crying strangers with a knife, the insensate joy of it waking her as she came. Still shuddering with the aftershocks, she ran to the bathroom to retch yellow bile into the toilet and take burning hot shower, scouring herself raw again before dressing in the single heaviest outfit she owned—turtleneck, flannel, tights and jeans, hair scraped into a bun that felt like penance. Out of the lack of anything else to do, she made herself a cup of coffee and took the stairs to the roof, where she’d drank with the Demo. When she pulled the tarp from the couch, the forgotten bottle of scrumpy fell out of it. Despite the frost tracery on the outside of the bottle, it had too high an alcohol content to freeze, a fact that she discovered after wiping it off on her jeans.

“Now that,” she said appreciatively, “looks like a good idea.”

The Cook unscrewed the lid and added it to her coffee until the cup overflowed. Closing the bottle, she took a gulp of the coffee and made a face. She sat for some time in the quiet, watching dawn start to pink the sky before coming down off the roof, distantly drunk.

In the kitchen, she made crepes with exaggerated care, pouring the thick liquid into the pan and sliding the half finished crepes around, flipping them. The floor got three crepes in the process, the dough quickly setting into crusty circles. As she whipped the cream for them, the Spy walked into the kitchen.

“Yet another day of our little war, _Vipere_. I trust the Doctor behaved himself?” He put the lit cigarette in his mouth and started to button up his shirt, squinting through the smoke at her, hair crimped in waves from his pillow.

“I’m fine,” she slurred, the part of her mind that kept screaming, screaming like it would never stop, had finally drowned, leaving silence.

The Spy leaned closer and sniffed. “You’re drunk.”

“I said I was fine.” The Cook flicked off the mixer and carefully pulled the paddles from the cream. She pushed the button that released them and lifted one to her mouth, gingerly lapping at the sweet, thick mass of it, leaving thick white smears on either side of her mouth.

“I see you have been sharing with the floor.” He finished buttoning his shirt and gestured at the half-cooked crepes around the stove. “Too drunk and sloppy to flip them into the pan at 6 am.” The Spy snorted, tucking his shirt into his slacks and pulling his tie from a pocket. “You seem fine to me.” _But of course,_ the Spy thought, disgusted, _the Doctor made it worse. Herr I-am-moral-until-I-am-angry could not possibly be trusted to do anything delicate. Oh no, he must get angry and justify his way into something that leaves scars._

“You know what,” she said, swaying. “Leave me the hell alone.”

“Why should I, _Vipere_?” The Spy buttoned his cuffs. “Why should any of us leave you alone? You’re here. We’re here. If you do not remember, we have been fucking like gymnasts for the last few weeks. Will you run hot and cold?” He laughed, a grim sound that had little humor and less happiness in it. “We won’t chase your moods, _Vipere_ , and we won’t leave you alone, either.”

The Spy straightened his cuffs, shaking his arms to align the seams on his sleeves. “If you won’t let us be kind, _Vipere_ , we certainly do not have to be.” _Vipere,_ he added silently, _if no one will let me use pleasure, I am skilled enough to wield the knife instead._

She grimaced at him. “Don’t confuse fucking with ownership, Sneak. We all know I’m leaving eventually.” Her arms spread wide and she rocked back on her heels, dizzy. “I’ll be leaving all this behind. And then you’ll have to seduce some other woman.” The Cook glared at him. “It’s not even as if I’m special. I’m just convenient.”

The Spy pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stabbed it viciously out into the sink before turning to her. “Convenient? Yes, _Vipere_ , you are convenient in a way.” He reached down, framing himself in his slacks with his free hand to watch her eyes fix on the line of his zipper. With a despairing laugh, he leaned in close, breath smoky and bitter. “And you are a world of problems in every other way. So no, not convenient. You have no idea how many problems I am forced to solve for you.”

He looked at her—drunk as Demo on a bad day, hair scraped painfully into a bun, two layers of shirts, and his work undone. “You have,” he said, voice a rusty saw blade, “no idea what I had to do to give you any measure of peace.” _La Mère_ , he raged silently, _la Mère, what I learned for you no man should know. I dug it up from memory for this foolish girl, and it did not help_.

She put the paddle in the sink, on top of his cigarette butt, and scrubbed her face with the back of her hand, smearing the cream up her cheek. “Don’t,” she said, voice clearing with anger, “pretend that I made you do anything. You did it because you liked it.”

The Cook’s eyes glittered unsteadily with her breath, fingers digging into the ledge of the counter she leaned against. “Fuck, apparently we’re all going to have a moment of brutal honesty—maybe I’ve been fucking you all like a gymnast because I’m fucking lonely. Maybe you’re not special to me, just convenient.”

His head snapped back, the startled rejoinder acidic. “Have I ever told you differently? Have I bought you roses, _Rosie_? Have I ever taken you out to dinner, or come home to you to tell you of my day? Have I told you”—he reached out and grabbed her apron, winding it around his fist and pulling her in, stumbling—“that you are anything but a toy?”

“ _Vipere_ ,” he panted, “you lie to yourself, and you lie to me. You will reject us first, because you think we will reject you.”

His breath was scalding hot on her face, and with a shiver she realized her head was turned up, seeking a kiss. Her body had responded with a spill of heat, softening and moving towards his. He looked down at her body yearning toward him, with an instant of acute pain. When he looked up, his eyes were wild with rage.

“Coward,” he hissed. “Run away from yourself, hating yourself all the while, rather than admit that you want to be here.”

Her face fell, tears instantly gathering on her alcohol-numbed cheeks.

The Spy stepped back, pulling his hand from her apron hard enough to send her staggering. “No, I won’t leave you alone, you little fool. And I won’t let you run from this either.” He glared at her and gripped the counter. “You have killed and you have died. You have stepped over a line few have stepped over, and it thrilled you.” His face was feral. “But be afraid.”

The Spy turned, speaking over his shoulder. “Be afraid of what kind of person you will be when you have learned to kill easily, when you have gone and there is no respawn. Perhaps, _Vipere_ , the fact that we are here is a mercy to the rest of the world.”

The Cook watched him walk away, shoulders thrown back and sank to her knees, scraping the dough from the floor. 

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Soldier looked around the kitchen. The room had slowly become messier and messier—when the Cook wasn’t out in the field taking pot shots at the other team or cooking, she certainly wasn’t cleaning. Spatters of soup and sauce tie-died the stove top, already dully gleaming with grease. The food had been burned, or under cooked, or simply raw. He had taken to eating MREs again out of survival, and who knows what everyone else had been eating.

The Cook herself ate very little, nothing he could see many days. She merely picked at the food, seemingly as disinterested as she might have been had it been made of plastic. He could see the grease accumulating in her hair, darkening it from auburn to a muddy, dark brown. The last week, as far as he could tell, she’d simply gone to bed by herself, and everyone had let her.

The Medic and Heavy seemed to be fighting. The Spy made cutting little remarks to the Cook about the food and her need to bathe. The Sniper said nothing, merely watched her during meal time. The Demo was even surlier than normal, which for him was incredible. The Pyro was himself. Always and ever himself—he smiled less often now that the flow of sweets had slowed to a trickle and stopped. He ate with the same arm curled around his plate, as if he expected it to be stolen out from under him. The Engineer simply ate at some other time. They hadn’t seen him for days.

The Soldier knew it was his fault. If he hadn’t had the nightmare—if he hadn’t nearly strangled her to death, she would probably be better. He had no idea how to apologize, how to fix her and them. No gift would soothe away what he had done, and nothing he could do could possibly express how sorry he was, but he had to do something. Rolling up his sleeves, he dug under the sink until he found rags and bleach. He had scrubbed the stove clean and was started on the floor near the stove when the Spy walked in.

“Are you doing her job for her, Solly?” He looked around the kitchen and sneered. “Leave it. She will come out of it on her own, or she will not. All you will do is prolong it.”

“Prolong it? I can’t apologize enough to make it go away.” The Soldier’s shoulders hunched, tension wringing bleach from the rag in his hands to spatter on the floor before him. “I can’t make her okay again.”

The Spy looked down at him. “Can you glue back together what’s broken inside you and her both? Physician,” he said, tone mocking, “fix thyself.”

The Soldier stood up heavily, drawing himself up and letting the rag slump to his side. “You know, I’ve always thought you were a shit. You really know what to say, don’t you?”

The Spy gave a mocking little bow, eying him. “Solly, my business is secrets and the leverage they give you.”

“It isn’t as if any of the rest of you are helping her,” the Soldier growled. “What’s it to you if I clean the place?”

The Spy stiffened. His mouth opened and closed silently for a moment, too outraged to speak. When he finally summoned the ability to do so, his voice was white hot. “You were there, you suicidal fool. Do you have any idea what kind of training you must endure to know how to do what I did for her? They turn you inside out, violating every single part of you so that you know in your bones how the mind may be torn.” He looked the Soldier up and down. “How did they train you? Did they just run you in circles and hand you a gun? Did they do any training with the lump between your ears?”

The Soldier took a single step forward, pointing at the Spy. “Do you really think that helped her? Does it look like it helped her?”

“For that, Solly, you must blame the Doctor,” the Spy said, a shadow crossing his face. “I do not know what he did, but she is…. Some burdens cannot be borne by others. She will come to resent you if you interfere too much.”

“I nearly strangled her,” the Soldier groaned. “How can I not try to show her how sorry I am?”

After a moment, the Spy cackled. “Is that what you think is wrong with her? Dig deeper, Solly, in you both. Dig deeper than a bad dream and a restless bed.” He crossed his arms low on his chest. “Start with childhood, for the both of you.”

The Soldier’s hands balled into fists, dropping the towel. “Don’t get too deep, Sneak, or you’ll find more nasty than even you can deal with.”

The Spy smiled, wryly. “My dear Solly, you might be amazed what I can handle.” He let his eyes drift slowly down the Soldier’s tense body to the loose crotch of his pants. “A little something to help you remember.”

The Soldier blushed up to his hairline and took another step forward. “Everything is a weapon for you Sneak, isn’t it?”

“If you force me to defend myself, Solly, you will find I do so quite well.” The Spy’s eyes glittered with amusement. “But I meant what I said. You can’t take this from her. You can only make it harder. If you have any pity for her at all, you’ll let her work through it without interference.”

The Spy looked down at the dirty counters. “The inside reflects the outside, Solly. You probably don’t remember when you were broken, but I bet it was in such filth.”

The Soldier stood, riveted to the spot in rigid terror—the cockroaches pouring out of the kitchen sink every night, onto the dishes his father was too proud to clean, sleeping with his pillow over his head so they would not crawl into his ears and nose—the little apartment came clear again, trying to swallow him. For a moment he was small: thin, pipe-stem arms held up against his father’s calloused fists. Eaten up by despair, by the fear and despair of wondering if this was his fault.

“Tell me something, Soldier, how did you glue yourself together? Did someone do it for you? Or did it merely… scab over, with time?” The Spy lit a cigarette and took a long drag before continuing. “And she rips it right open, doesn’t she? Holding someone so much like you, so similarly broken.” The smoke trickled out of his mouth, curling and feathering against his face. “I would tell you to fix the wound, but it has probably scarred enough to make that difficult. You can’t fix her to fix yourself, Solly.”

The Soldier’s stomach heaved and he gagged.

“The past comes back, does it not? It bubbles up because you never had the courage to face it. If I may give you a little advice, Solly, it is this: you can’t run from your problems.” The Spy walked to the sink and tapped his ashes into it. “You have to face them.”

The Soldier found his voice, hoarse with outrage and bile. “And how would you know, Sneak?”

The Spy looked at him blandly, blinking, and replied. “Are you really so blind, Solly, so preoccupied by your own problems, that you cannot recognize the voice of experience?”

“Very well,” the Spy said, “let me make myself clear. I am the voice of experience. Stop hiding from your problems. Murder is not therapy, no matter how enjoyable it may be.” He put the cigarette out and washed his fingers. “You cannot hide, you cannot avoid, and you cannot run. You can only face them today and tomorrow.”

The Spy dried his fingers on one of the clean towels the Soldier had stacked on the counter. “I’ve paid my dues. I keep paying my dues. You and she have to pay yours.” He pointed at the door. “Now, get the hell out of the kitchen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack, Smashing Pumpkins, "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning" (alternate version)


	22. Chapter 22

Miss Pauling arrived the next day without calling or fanfare, merely a slight, black-haired figure in a black suit who walked in with breakfast. She stopped in the dining room door, a hush spreading around her like oil. Removing her jacket, she exposed an efficient-looking shoulder harness and two large gun butts, which stuck out from under each arm. She laid her jacket on the back of the nearest chair, startling the Scout sitting in it, and rolled up her sleeves, then gestured imperiously at the Medic, who stood to follow her. They both walked out of the room, every eye in it fixed on their backs.

“Who was that,” the Cook asked as Miss Pauling walked out of the room.

“That, Birdie, is the fixer.” The Sniper put his fork down. “And someone is about to be proper fucked by the head office.”

“What do you mean by fixer?”

“Lady,” the Scout said, “when someone or something is an obstacle for the company, she’s who they call in to make the bodies and clean them up.” He turned in his chair to finger Miss Pauling’s coat, lifting it to his nose briefly. “She’s who they call when they decide that someone is too much trouble to deal with and she… retires the problem.”

“I take it,” the Cook said, “you don’t mean retiring someone with a pension.”

The Demo looked over at her, face grim. “No, we don’t mean pension. We mean death, lassie.”

“We all die every day. Why are you all so tense?”

“She has the power,” the Heavy rumbled, “to turn off respawn. Is the last death.”

The Scout was still touching the coat behind him, absently stroking two fingers up and down it as if fascinated. She watched him for a moment, at the yearning on his face— _he’s attracted to her_ , she thought. Miss Pauling’s face, the Cook thought, had been slightly pinched for her tastes, but the graceful strength in Miss Pauling’s forearms had been intimidating. The movement of her arms had picked hard, individual cords out of her forearms that spoke loudly of bodies manhandled and limbs sawn through. Behind her, she heard someone clear their throat, and a husky contralto voice spoke. “You will come with me.”

The little hairs on the back of the Cook’s neck stood up and she turned slowly, finding the strong forearms in white cotton sleeves, small but dense shoulders, and a slash of a mouth, disturbingly red against the pale skin. Miss Pauling looked down at her. “Now.”

Her green eyes were agate hard and terrifying blank, the Cook noticed. She stood slowly and turned to follow Miss Pauling, who pushed open the door and walked through it. The Cook’s footsteps dragged, and the hall grew pale as she walked.

Miss Pauling gestured at the living room door and the Cook pushed through it, breathing heavily and dragging herself to a couch. Her shoes clicked on the floor as she circled the couch, back to the Cook. Staring into the fireplace, Miss Pauling said, “I trust you remember the terms of your contract? Shall I remind you?” She turned, folding her arms beneath her breasts and over the gun butts beneath them. “You were to come and cook.”

The Cook wrapped her arms around herself before answering. “I have been.”

“Let’s try again,” Miss Pauling said. “Did you read the section under termination?”

“I scanned it.” The Cook said, defensively. “I wasn’t planning on violating the contract.”

Miss Pauling smiled grimly. “Very few people do.” She took a breath, the gun butts bobbing gently where they crowded her breasts. “And yet, I am called in on an amazingly regular basis.” She unfolded her arms and shook them out gently, loosening the muscles. “You have a choice: you can comply with your contract or I will terminate it.”

The Cook looked up at her, pulse jumping in her neck. The slim woman in front of her was terrifyingly brisk, and the lack of inflection in her voice was as convincing as a list of her crimes would have been.

Miss Pauling waited for the fear to blanch the Cook’s face, then continued. “We chose you precisely because you are mostly unconnected, because of your proclivities, and because you were thought to be the most… flexible… candidate for the position. We were delighted when you started spending part of your day in the field, since it gives RED a slight advantage in terms of numbers. But if you continue to make yourself a liability to the team, we have no reason to keep you.”

She smiled again. “We don’t even mind that you’ve been fucking them. In fact, we took for granted that you would, given your history. Of course, the company won’t pay you for it, but it’s my understanding that you’ve enjoyed it.”

The Cook flushed and looked at the floor, her shoulders creeping up toward her ears.

Miss Pauling sneered slightly as she spoke. “We won’t make you fuck them. However, the company has to insist that you go back to doing the job you were hired to do. Overall ratios between kills and deaths are increasingly one-sided, and if I have to field one more request from the BLU team for their own… cook, I will be taking it out on the next problem I have to eliminate.”

The Cook finally found her voice. “And what happens if reach the end of my contract?”

“If you manage to serve out your contract without making this kind of mess again, the company will honor its agreement, pay out the amount specified, and you’ll be free to go.” Miss Pauling paused and considered the leather toes of her heels before looking up. “I find people often don’t want to see me twice. Will I be seeing you again?”

The Cook shook her head desperately, fingers digging into the couch.

“Then I suggest,” said Miss Pauling, “that you make peace with it, whatever it is.”

“I don’t know how.” The Cook looked up into those hard, green eyes, terrified by the casual strength in Miss Pauling’s arms and the guns hanging inches from her nose.

Miss Pauling snorted. “The problem with submissive types is that they typically don’t take any responsibility for their own goddamn enjoyment.” She stalked forward, the tiny click of heel and toe on the floor echoing in the room. “You, with your history, have less room to complain than most. You are not a virgin from the middle of nowhere.” She stopped, legs just brushing the Cook’s knees. “If you enjoy this—the violence, the sex—stop kicking yourself for it.” Miss Pauling leaned forward, grabbing the Cook’s forearms and digging her nails into them. “You get over it,” Miss Pauling breathed, her red lips parting lushly, “By getting over it, one day at a time.” Her eyes slid down the Cook. “Or perhaps, in your case, getting under it.”

The Cook looked up at the face inches from hers, confused, terrified, warmth creeping up her arms.

“I know what the BLU team did,” Miss Pauling said quietly. “And they’ll probably do it again, as soon as the RED team stops running itself ragged to protect your spoiled ass when you go on the field. They’ll do it until Blutarch gives in or you leave.”

The Cook took a sobbing breath and Miss Pauling continued. “According to your file, you’re resilient. Resiliency is usually bought in pain and experience.” She regarded the Cook for a moment. “Tell me something—how much of this is a moral crisis and how much is trauma?”

The Cook whispered, “I don’t know.”

“How much of this,” Miss Pauling whispered back, “is self-indulgence?”

The Cook looked at Miss Pauling, at those merciless eyes, finally starting to get angry. “I’m allowed to have my own pain.”

Miss Pauling laughed at her. “No one can take that from you, Sugar. Not a therapist, not a friend, nor a good fuck. It’s the one thing that’s absolutely yours. But it’s not the pain you’re hiding from, is it?”

The Cook laughed back, a weak little chuckle. “Pain is the one absolute. There’s no hiding.”

“Then,” Miss Pauling whispered, “you’d better stop hiding and do something about it.”

Miss Pauling released the Cook’s arms and took several steps back, smoothing the lines of her suit. “Get your head out of your ass in the mean time. And for the love of god, take a goddamn shower.” She made a face and looked at her hands. “Have a little pride.”

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

As the sound of Miss Pauling’s heels receded down the hall outside the living room, the Cook slowly drew herself to her feet, bent like an old woman. She hobbled out of the room and down the hallway, to her own room.  The shower cut in before she had finished closing her door, and the Engineer stepped out of her bathroom. “I was hoping you would come out of the room, Missy, but none of us are ever quite sure where Miss Pauling is concerned. Some of her ‘come to Jesus’ talks end with a double-tap and someone digging a hole in the ground.”

The Cook shivered, arms wrapped around her sides.

“Yep, looks like she did a good job of scaring you. Well, come on then. You can take a shower and we’ll have a little chat.” The Engineer gestured with his flesh hand. “Water’s hot, bathroom is warm and I don’t mind playing father-confessor if it’ll snap you out of it.” He stepped forward and snagged one of her arms, pulling gently, and escorted her into the bathroom.

The Engineer closed to door behind them, trapping the steam in the bathroom and turning it into a sauna. He gently unwrapped her arms, then deftly set about stripping her. “Did you need me to get in there and scrub,” he asked, “or do you think you can manage that on your own?”

The Cook took a deep breath and stepped into the shower on her own, flinching at the first hot spray to hit her skin. The Engineer flipped the lid down on the toilet and sat down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Little girl, I’m of the mind that this is probably a moral crisis for you of some description. You’re right good company when you’re in the mood to be, and I don’t think it’s natural for you to be this sulky.”

The Cook stood under the spray, head tilted up, letting it slick her hair to her skull and back. Her hair, grease at first resisting the water, finally fell in a flat sheet hanging down her shoulders. The hot water pounded at her face, and her skin flushed, fever warm. Deep inside her, some stubborn, essential core felt like ice, untouched by the heat of the water around her. She wanted to laugh at the word “sulky,” but couldn’t think of any way it could be funny.

“If this is about killing a man, I promise it gets to be less trouble. And it ain’t like any of us is going to die permanently. It’s more like… sending us to the locker room. Pretty much exactly like that, in fact.” He ran his fingers over the stubble of his scalp. “I think this might be about more, though. Look, Missy, if you’re worried about sleeping with the lot of us, you shouldn’t.”

The Cook scrubbed her hands over her face under the spray, knotting her fingers in her hair— _torn_ , she thought. _I feel torn. One man is happy, the next is sad, then they’re talking about eating me, that I can’t love them and they can’t love me._ She touched her head to the wall of the shower, the water beating down on her. _Why can’t any of them love me? Why can’t I love them?_

“I know,” the Engineer continued, “that you probably got all them talks growing up about good girls, bad girls, and bad things that happen to bad girls. If we were in Peoria, or Bee Hill, or any other tiny little town, we’d all have to be more circumspect.”

The Cook unknotted her fingers and reached mechanically for the shampoo.

“But we ain’t in a little town in the middle of nowhere. And I think you’ll pardon me for saying that Jesus ain’t watching.” He cleared his throat. “Neither is your Aunt Sally, or whomever you’re thinking about. It’s just us, here on the edge of nowhere, in about as strange a circumstance as you can imagine.”

She ran her fingers through her hair and decided to wash it again.

“This may not be what we all were taught to be expect, Missy, but it ain’t all bad. And swapping around is about as normal as being interested in sex in the first place—not everybody’ll do it, nor will they do it honestly, but a whole lot of it gets done despite the priest, the reverend, nosy Parkers, and all the laws or moral rules about who gets to have sex with who.“ He shifted, sitting back. “And if we make you happy and you make us happy, what’s wrong with it?”

The Cook leaned down and turned the shower off, then stood dripping in the tub. “I don’t—” she paused. “It’s not that I feel bad about all this, exactly. Or at least that part.”

“Well, what’s eating you, little girl?”

She pulled the shower curtain open and looked at him, struggling to put words on a visceral ball of horror and memory. He waited, leaning on his elbows and watching her face. After a minute, he said, “tell you what, knock once for yes and twice for no.”

The flash of irritation knocked the words out of her. “I’m a monster.”

The Engineer blinked. “Where?” He stood, craning his head around her before looking back at her again. “I don’t see any monsters.”

She looked at him, disbelief scrawled across her face. “Are you trying to tease me until I feel better?”

He grinned at her, a fan of skin appearing next to his bright blue eyes and sat back down on the toilet lid. “Maybe. Got you talkin’ at least. So, did you want to talk about murder or sex?”

The Cook squeezed the water from her hair and reached for the towel. He handed it to her, watching her tuck it around herself. “I… both? Neither?”

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about sex or murder, what do you want to talk about?” He reached out, gesturing, and she let him pull her from the tub to stand between his knees, his arms wrapped around her hips. For a moment, he was so strongly reminded of his wife that he nearly called her Bea—the intimacy of holding a woman fresh from the shower to talk to her undoing him. The Engineer sighed and released her hips, sitting back. _No good comes of it_ , he thought. _They sent you in here because you’re the only one who’s been married and can wrangle unhappy women_. _Of course_ , he added silently with a moment of wry amusement, _if it were Bea you wouldn’t be talking about murder, just why it’s okay to fuck the neighbors._

She looked down at him unhappily. “I can’t really afford to get used to all this. I only signed a contract for a year, and what happens at the end of it? I’ve become a killer. How do I go back to cooking in some restaurant somewhere with the knowledge that I can pull the trigger on a stranger?”

 _Oh hell_ , the Engineer thought, _does she really still think they’ll let her leave at the end of the contract_? _Will they?_ “People are kinda flexible, little girl,” he said. “Put them in one circumstance and they’ll be one way, then change their scenery and they’ll do something else. We managed not to murder the town they let us go to, despite being hardened killers.”

He considered her for a moment, watching her shift from foot to foot. “But it ain’t just about the killing, is it? I heard what the Spy did, and I know what his buddy is like.”

She flushed immediately, turning red from her hairline down to the top of the towel.

“I see,” he said. “You know, this is a conversation that’s best had somewhere comfortable.” He tugged gently at her towel. “You might as well get in bed. It’s too cold to stand around in that.”

The Cook looked at him archly. “All this to get me in bed?”

The Engineer sighed before answering. “Not entirely, but somebody should play good cop, and they ain’t a social group. Only other fella who’s been married is the Medic, but we figured he might make more problems than he fixes.” The expression on her face was utterly miserable, and the Engineer scowled. “He’s got a tongue like a razor when he’s good and pissed, little girl. Don’t take him too seriously. He likes to hurt people.”

The Cook dropped the towel around her body and crawled into the bed. The Engineer joined her seconds later, kicking off his boots and curling up to face her under the blanket. He absently tucked it around her, looking at the flush on her face.

“Well,” he said. “Out with it.”

After awhile, she muttered. “It feels good.”

“Which it we talkin’ about?” He hadn’t known it was possible for her to turn any redder without bursting into flame. After a very stern word with himself about what kind of probing he was doing, he spoke again. “If this is the ’it’ I think you mean, it would after what they did. You need to understand, little girl, that the human brain is kind of stupid in several important ways—if you get it happy and make suggestions, it’ll pick some of it up. The Spy was trying to make you happy, in his own sneaky way.”

She cringed. “He… he went about it wrong.”

“Yeah,” the Engineer said, a bleak expression on his face, “he did.” He contemplated the wall behind her head for a moment, struggling with his temper. “He didn’t think you’d adjust if he just talked to you about it. ‘Course, if there’s a chance for him to get his dick in something, he’ll try it. They both will.”

“It’s not just what they did. I’m…”

The Engineer interrupted her. “Probably not, for that and what I think you’re about to say. Can’t put something there that isn’t there at all. It ain’t like the movies. Of course, lust and violence ain’t rare contents, if you could cut people open to see it. And it ain’t unusual for people to have mixed signals, even signals that are really mixed.”

She rolled her eyes up at him, panic starting to edge them in white.

“No, now, you panic every time we’re in bed together. I’m going to start to be hurt if you don’t cut it out.” There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes, and the Engineer reached out, smoothing her cheek. “You don’t strike me as the kind of girl who wants two and a half kids and a white picket fence. That ain’t a bad thing. If you’re a little stabby around the edges…” He shrugged, tenting the covers over his shoulder. “We’re all stabby ‘round here where we ain’t shooty.” After a moment, he added, “or burny.”

“If I’d wanted that,” she said, “I could have stayed home and married like my family wanted me to.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said quietly, smoothing his thumb across her cheek. “This has been a lonely war for all of us.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You’re being charming and understanding. Did you want something?”

The Engineer snorted. “Let’s finish the discussion first, because I want your head in a good place for fucking. We have the day, since they never call Miss Pauling in without calling a halt to it. Now,” he said, pulling her toward him, “tell me something: why are you suffering from an advanced case of woe-is-me over your sex life?”

“I feel guilty.”

“I can tell. But why?”

She couldn’t answer him. Church bells, and all the aunts and uncles, her mother and father, people in that town, all the people who expected her to be something else: the Cook knew she couldn’t be what they wanted, but didn’t know why it still mattered. And the things the Demo and Medic had said to her, that she was heartless, empty, and broken—what else was there to feel but guilty?

“Well, let me ask you something, little girl. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The BLU soldier swam in front of her eyes momentarily, followed by her nightmares, all replaced by the years winding down, solitary and lonely, full of rejection and rootlessly wandering from city to city.

“I can see something in your eyes, Missy. Out with it.”

She stared at him, lips pressed tightly together.

“You know, little girl, pride is a fine thing. Except when it keeps you from getting something you want.”

She shook her head and he sighed. “You can’t have what you won’t ask for.” He pulled away from her, pushing the blanket aside. “If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, Missy, it’s that you can’t have what you won’t ask for.”

He stood, leaving a cold hole in the bed that she reached a hand out to touch. “You let us know what you want, then.” The Engineer grabbed his boots and took two steps away from the bed before she responded.

“I want you,” she said softly. “I want them. I want this.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be alone, but I’m afraid of being a monster.”

He turned toward the bed with a half-smile. “So don’t be.” _Well, Dell, it ain’t lying_ , he thought. _It ain’t that easy, but there’s a little room in your heart and the base for her, and taking pot shots at the BLU team don’t make her a monster_.

“Please,” she said. “Come back.”

The Engineer turned back toward the bed, dropping his boots with a thud, and pulled his googles from around his neck, letting the bounce on the floor. “I don’t want you in fear, little girl. I don’t want you in unhappiness, or desperation, or in any sort of dire straits. I want you in happiness. I want to find out where you’re ticklish, and watch movies with you. I want to paddle your ass and make you squeal.”

He pulled his denim shirt from his pants and shrugged it over his head, then unbuttoned and stepped out of his pants. Naked, he stood in front of the bed. “You can get your torture from other people, little girl. I want something else.”

The Cook looked up at him, shy and unsure how to react to the appeal of it, to the intimacy and warmth in his tone— _acceptance_ , she thought with a shock. _He’s offering acceptance_.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and drew her into his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist. “What I want, little girl, is for you to stay. And I know that’s what you want to hear, even if you’re too goddamn chintzy to admit it. And if you’re a little inclined to murder, well, you ain’t alone.”

The Engineer grinned at her. “You are real inclined to fuck, and trust me when I say it’s appreciated. I don’t know that I even care why, either, I’m prepared to just enjoy it.” He watched the expression on her face soften, desperately pleading. After a moment of confusion, he blinked, shocked— _maybe I shouldn’t be surprised_ , he thought, _considering who’s at the base, but fellas, you couldn’t have offered the girl a little kindness?_

She shifted slightly, sliding his cock into her, and sat facing him, looking at the expression on his face. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly into his body, and thrust up, gently. “I ain’t in a hurry, so don’t expect to be done soon. I also ain’t alone in wanting you to stay, but those fuckers will probably drop dead before saying it. Ain’t a one of them that can be honest about how they feel if they ain’t pissed off. ‘Course, they hired a base full of war vets right out of World War Two and Vietnam, so they’re big soppy mass of _sturm und drang_ , the German leading the pack.”

One of his hands cupped the back of her head, pulling it down to meet his, and he kissed her, gently. “Stay,” he said into her mouth, and went back to kissing her. He took a breath. “Stay for this, and for all the inventive shit we can think up. Stay for the whips and the chains, if you like. Stay for the spankings, and the tutu I’ll make you. Stay because there’s nowhere else you’d be at home.”

She pulled back to look at him, her face falling, and he stared back. “That’s how we all ended up here, little girl. It’s the only place we could be.” He fell silent, looking at her, thrusting slowly and shallowly. “It ain’t so bad,” he whispered. “It ain’t all bad.”

She watched his face grow quiet, watched him searching her face for a sign. “I’m still afraid,” she whispered. _Do you care_ , she asked silently. _Do you think I’m broken and empty?_

“One day at a time,” he said, his free hand reaching up to touch her face. “You can learn to be less afraid one day at a time.”

He wrapped both arms around her, nudging her with his head until she leaned back and he could reach her nipples with his mouth. Holding her back, he sucked one into his mouth, the rough stubble on his face leaving a prickling trail as his warm mouth tugged at it. She felt herself go limp, and he chuckled around her nipple. She pulled her knees up slightly for better leverage and helped him, legs contracting to bring her down on him harder, eyes on his face as the expression changed from amusement to intent.

“Oh no, little girl, it’ll be shallow right up until I change the pace on you, several minutes after you get that adorable little whine in the back of your throat.”

She smiled and stuck her lower lip out.

“I’ll bite it if you leave it out like that.”

True to his word, he did, waiting until the pout had become a gasp, until she wriggled looking for just a little more sensation. He bit her lower lip, bringing prickling tears to her eyes, and rolled them both over, scooting them both back until his knees were on the floor and her ass hung over the edge of the bed.

She left her legs wrapped around him and squeezed, bringing herself to him hard. He wrapped both hands around her waist and, watching her face, fucked her until she shrieked, fists twisting in the sheets, and came as her cunt clamped down around him.

He knelt there for a moment, panting, before speaking. “Wrap your legs around me tight.”

She did, looking up at him in dazzled curiosity, and he slowly, carefully, stood up, still inside her, sliding wetly. He turned and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“Look me in the eyes, little girl.”

She blinked at him, eyelids and lips swollen.

“This is what I want. Is this what you want?”

“It’s not a fair question right now, Engie.”

“Don’t make me make it even more unfair.” He flexed his stomach, sliding himself in her as she moaned. “Is this something you want?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes it is.”

“So stay.”

She put her head forward, resting in on his shoulder, and sighed. “Let me think. This is kind of a lot.”

In her ear, he said quietly, “I’m not the only person who wants to be persuasive, I’m just who was best at dealing with tears. If I were you I wouldn’t bother with much in the way of clothes today or they’re liable to get ruined.” He chuckled. “We don’t necessarily share in groups, but we are willing to share.”

She pulled herself off of him and stood up. “Why?”

He looked at her, leaning back on his arms. “Why not? This ain’t Peoria, and it’s nice to get to be honest with somebody. Bugs me to go into town and lie for company. And I like to be touched, little girl. The pros don’t want to do it, and taking some girl to bed I’ll never see again don’t suit me.”

“Will I be allowed to go to town?”

“I don’t know why not. We don’t get to go much, but you are a part of the team.”

She grimaced. “Team hooker.”

“Don’t run it down, little girl, or papa will spank. And sometimes, papa will spank anyway because it’s fun. Fucking shouldn’t be serious all the time.” The Engineer smiled at her, a filthy grin that was both sex and fondness. “Pull a robe on and go talk, or come back to bed and get that spank.” 

She walked to the bathroom and pulled her robe off a hook by the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Chris Isaak, "Like the Way She Moves"


	23. Chapter 23

As she passed the surgery, something hit the door with the sound of glass shattering. Snarled, guttural Russian poured from the room. The Medic staggered out of the door, ducking a thrown book. The Heavy followed him into the hall, purple with rage. Both men stood, chests heaving, the air between them crackling. She stepped backward, and the faint scrape of her feet on the floor made both men turn their heads. The Medic looked embarrassed, cheeks flushed and eyes sliding away from her. The Heavy lunged across the space between them, lifting her by the front of her robe and ripping the tie across it.

“You!” His huge face was inches from hers, rage glittering in his eyes. “Is not enough that I must discuss my nightmares with you? Are you not content with destroying us, that you would try to steal him as well?”

The seams in the armpits of the robe started to rip, painfully giving way under her arms stitch by stitch. The Cook grabbed the Heavy’s wrists, fingers scrabbling at their massive girth. He shook her like a puppy, rattling her teeth. She wheezed, looking up at the snarl on the Heavy’s face. “We didn’t fuck. We’ve never fucked.”

“It is not,” the Heavy said acerbically, “the sex, _глупая девочка_. Is the intimacy.” He shook her again. “Is his face when he lets go, the things that he thinks of when we are not fighting this stupid war.”

“I don’t mean to take—” the Cook took a shallow breath, the slowly snapping seams burning against the skin on the underside of her arms. “I’m not trying to take that from you.”

The seams on the robe gave way, dropping her to the floor, and the Heavy threw the robe fragments over his shoulder. “Try? Maybe not. But he still misses women and there you are: weak and vulnerable and needy. Perhaps I should call you _Лихо_. Clinging to the neck, sent like a gift, drowning everyone around you.” He spat on the floor beside her. “ _Лихо_ eats people. Maybe she does not mean it, maybe she does. Does not matter, either way.”

The Cook looked up at him from her knees, shocked. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean or want to take anything from you.”

The Medic sighed. “Mischa, I will do whatever you ask me to. Please, please believe me. I will not leave you. The girl truly does not understand.”

The Heavy stared down at her, lines on his face deepening. “And if I say you will never touch again?”

She looked up at him. “Then we won’t.”

The Heavy’s eyes closed, wearily, and he sighed. “No, if I say you will not, he will still think of you and be sad. And there you will be across the table, close enough to touch.” The hallway was silent. “Is a new rule. Never alone. I will be there with you, to share, or not at all.”

The Cook looked at him quietly, then started to stand. The Heavy picked her up, ignoring her flinch, and put her on her feet with enough force to jar her teeth.

“I do not want to get in the way, so I agree.” She reached out for his hand, and after a moment, his fingers engulfed hers. They shook hands once.

The Medic sighed and sagged against the wall in relief. The Heavy looked over at him, contempt flashing across his face. “But you? You still owe me something.”

The Medic looked up, startled. The Heavy stared at him, anger still simmering under his skin, volatile.

“Doctor will make his apologies here, in front of us both. Then he will make more apologies in private.”

The Heavy crooked a single, thick eyebrow at the Medic, who flushed as he realized what kind of apologies he’d be making in private.

The Medic cleared his throat. “My apologies, _Fräulein_ , for taking things a bit far the other night. And my apologies, Mischa, for sharing something I should not have.”

They both stared at him, at the vulnerable, embarrassed flush on his face and the glancing eye contact he made with them both.

 _Miss Pauling_ , the Cook thought. _He left the room with Miss Pauling at breakfast._ She glared at him, eyes narrowed. “Did you call Miss Pauling?”

The Medic looked at her, startled. “ _Nein_ , I did not have to. The field is monitored, as is respawn, and when the team makes a poor showing, it triggers a report. I may have mentioned that you seemed to be fitting in poorly—”

The Cook crossed the few steps between them and slapped the Medic, putting her whole shoulder behind it. His glasses flew off his head and skittered across the floor. The Heavy started forward a step, then stopped and started to laugh, a roaring rumble that rolled between the bare, concrete walls.

“ _Fräulein_!” The Medic put a hand against his red cheek.

“That is for terrifying the hell out of me.” The Cook rubbed at her stinging hand and glared at the Medic.

“Little one, there are times when the best thing to do with the Doctor is to do just that. He gets _гордый_ on occasion.” The Heavy’s smiled turned predatory as he looked at the Medic. “And now, you should go. The Doctor and I have something to discuss.” The Medic retrieved his glasses and put them back on in time to catch the look on the Heavy’s face.

“I’m going to borrow a lab coat.”

The Heavy waved his hand at her absently. “ _Да_ , fine, just go.”

The Cook stuck her head in the surgery and pulled one of the Medic’s lab coats off the hook by the door, stepping carefully over the glass. She turned and scurried off, pulling on the coat as she went and just missing the Heavy pouncing on the startled Medic like a giant cat. The Medic made a surprisingly high squeak, cut off quickly by a bass growl and the sound of the surgery doors slamming. The Cook smiled and continued down the hall.

**< <<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Heavy picked the Medic up by the front of his shirt and suspenders and walked forward until the Medic’s back was against a wall. “Maybe is not clear to you, _бабник_ , but I am not completely _покорный_. I am also not _глупый_.”

The Medic’s mouth closed with a click and he glared up at the larger man. “ _Я не ваша сука_ **.”**

The Heavy looked down at him, rage cold in his eyes, before wrapping a hand around the Medic’s throat. He leaned close enough to feather the Medic’s face with his breath. “ _Укус меня, и я сделаю тебя моя сука_. I have,” he growled, “far more experience killing men than you do, and while you were trying to patch them up in the camps, I was proving to guards that I am not the _сука_.” He looked the Medic up and down. “ _Не думаю, что вы ебать меня без моего согласия_.”

The Heavy stared into the Medic’s eyes, sneer lifting his lip. **“** _Wir besiegt ihr Deutschen einmal und ich kann zeigen, warum_. **”**

The Medic swallowed heavily, then reached up and pulled off his glasses. His glasses cleared his face just in time to miss the Heavy leaning into him for a kiss, mashing their faces together breathlessly. The Heavy let the Medic’s feet touch the floor, still resting a hand on the Medic’s neck, and kept kissing him, the threat of strangulation making his hand heavier.

The Heavy drew back slightly, breaking the kiss. “Do not forget, _милая моя_ ”—the word curled his lips—“what we are together.”

The Medic hissed at him, but made no move to get away from the Heavy. “I forget nothing. I was honest, Mischa, about who I was and what I wanted.” His mouth was swollen from the Heavy’s stubble, and bright red against his skin. “I still want you, _trottel_. No matter what happens, I will still want you.”

He reached up for the Heavy’s shirt and starting feeding the buttons through their holes. “ _Wird immer ich will dich_.”

The Heavy let his arm go loose, and let the Medic undress him before reaching greedily for the Medic’s tie and then the buttons of his shirt. The Medic rubbed his chest against the Heavy, smiling smugly as he felt the Heavy react. “ _Nichts, was ich mit ihr machen wird alles von euch nehmen_ ,” he said softly.

“Nothing,” he said as he worked a long finger hand into the waistband of the Heavy’s pants, “that would not make me want you, the way you moan.” He caressed the Heavy’s cock in his pants, making the man moan.

“The way you cry out when I hurt you.” The Medic pinched the Heavy gently, watching him flinch protectively around himself. The Heavy was careful to keep his hands out of the way, to draw them gently to the side.

“The way,” he said, grabbing the Heavy’s cock and turning him so that his back was against the wall and the Medic stood in front of him, “you feel about me.” The Medic pulled his hand from the Heavy’s pants. “Down, Mischa.”

The Heavy sank down slowly to his knees, eyes on the Medic’s vulpine smile, trapped between the Medic and the wall. The Medic’s hands followed him down, caressing his face. “Beautiful Mischa.”

The Heavy reached out for the Medic’s zipper, pulling it down, and carefully fed the Medic’s cock through the open hole of his boxers and fly. The Medic’s fingers stroked his cheeks as he leaned forward, sucking the Medic’s cock into his mouth.

“Mischa, whatever else happens, I will never want to leave you.” The Medic’s hands kept stroking the Heavy’s head, gently, as the Heavy clung to his hips, fingers digging furrows in the Medic’s hips. “ _Nie_ , Mischa. Never.”

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Cook held the lab coat closed around herself and padded barefoot to the Demo’s room. Instead of knocking, she turned the door knob and opened the door. The Demo, laying flat on his bed, bolted upright, staring at her. “Are yeh just so rude that yeh cannot manage basic manners, or am I getting a special treat today? Yeh’re damn lucky I dinnae bother to arm the door.”

She closed the door behind her as he sat up on the edge of the bed and crossed the few steps between them, standing a step away from him. “Just rude, then,” he said. “What do yeh want, lass?”

“You need to apologize,” she said, fingers pale where she clutched the lab coat. “You owe me an apology.”

“Fer what,” he growled. “Fer not taking advantage of yeh? Well then, lass, I’m so sorry I didn’t take advantage of yeh and treat yeh like the doll yeh want to be. Maybe I should have just put yer knees to yer ears and taken the edge off meh temper.”

“Start by apologizing for calling me a doll,” she snapped.

The Demo looked her up and down, glare deliberately insulting. “Are yeh not? Yeh’re naked under tha Medic’s coat, yeh smell like sex, and yeh’re in my room. Am I the only man yeh haven’t fucked yet?”

Her head snapped back and she crossed the last few steps between them with her hand cocked. He watched her, ignoring it, as she struggled with her temper. “You know what your problem is,” she said, voice tight. “You think you’re being moral. You think you’re being a good person. Do you know”—she leaned into him, waiting for him to flinch—“what you’re being?”

The Demo didn’t flinch, but she could see his tension in the fingers he dug into his kneecap.

“You’re being cruel. You and the Medic both. If I don’t look like what you want, I must be broken. I must not care about anyone.” The Cook breathed on his face, rage burning spots in her cheeks. “What you said hurt me more than beating me ever did.”

At that, the Demo did flinch, looking at the satisfaction which cut a grim smile on her lips. He drummed his fingers on his kneecaps. “All right. Say I’m wrong about it.” His body was stiff but for the drumming fingers on his knees. “Now yeh can go.”

“I’m not done,” she hissed.

“Yes, yeh are.” His lips twisted bitterly. “Now get out.” She stayed standing there and he sighed explosively. “What is it going to take to get yeh to get out? Will I have to pick yeh up and bounce yeh out like a bad drunk?” His fingers tightened again, digging gouges in the skin of his knees. “Do yeh really not understand the word ‘now’?”

“Not until you apologize for telling me I couldn’t possibly care about any of you.”

The Demo knew himself a bit better than he wished—an occupational hazard that he’d been hiding from in scrumpy for a long time—he’d looked back on that night regretting, then hating himself, then regretting again. “I am nae,” he said, tension thinning his voice, “made of stone. If yeh want to have this discussion, yeh need to back up slightly before I forget I was raised to be a gentleman.”

“Are you going to talk to me about it?”

 _If she stomps a foot in rage_ , the Demo thought, _I’ll be in her before she has time to figure out what’s happened_. _Lass,_ _if yeh don’t move soon, I’m going to be doin' a bit more than talking, and that won’t settle anything_. “Yea,” he said, “I’ll talk about it.”

She took a single step back, still well within what he could grab and pull into his lap and—he made himself look back at her face. “What do yeh want me to say, lassie?”

The Cook sighed, exasperated. “Are you really going to do this?”

“Do what, lassie?”

“Refuse to admit it wasn’t a fair thing to say.” She looked at him, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I may not know you, but you don’t know me either. None of you do.”

“Why do yeh think,” he said, the muscles in his bare shoulders rippling with tension, “that I dinnae sleep with yeh?”

She looked at him and bit her lower lip. “You think I’m too broken to care.” The tears overflowed and she didn’t wipe them, too ashamed to acknowledge she was crying. He watched her face redden, her lower lip starting to quiver, feeling like the devil. _Nae_ , his conscience said, _but what’s under yer kilt will be if yeh cannae remember yer manners._

The Demo winced and leaned forward, digging his elbows into the knots of muscles near his knees. “How could yeh not be, lass,” he said quietly. “We’re all broken here. What about any of this could yeh want? This is not a happy life.” He sighed. “And no, that’s nae why I didn’t fuck yeh.”

She simply looked at him, struggling not to sob, her shoulders shrugging in tiny movements as she fought it.

“Lass, I dinnae fuck yeh because….” The Demo’s mouth opened and closed. “It…” He cleared his throat— _courage, man_ , he thought. _Do yeh have any?_  “It matters to meh, lass. Sharing yeh with them all. Wanting to be something to yeh if I fuck yeh. I dinnae….”

And now she was sobbing, face down on her chest, standing alone in the middle of his room and weeping like a child left at a train station. _I am a right bastard_ , he thought, frustrated. _Look at tha lassie_. _I am a right bastard and a coward to boot_.

The Demo sighed and peeled himself off the bed. When he put his arms around her, she fought him for a moment, then set about soaking a large patch of his chest, the moisture rolling into his kilt. He patted her roughly, then more gently. _Cuntbuggeringfucktoleybumshite_ , he thought, searching for something to say that wasn’t the litany of things he was calling himself. _Should’ve known she’d be a bit sensitive about that._   _Did she nae say she wanted respect? Did she nae show yeh she cares and was worried about rejection? And the last few weeks—the lass had to deal with killing a man, and the Medic had a fit, and the Spy was his snakey self, and his buddy with him, and Pauling came in the morning and I’m a right arsehole._

“Look,” he said, “lass, please look up at meh.”

She did, the helpless misery in her face doing to him what no amount of time in the prison system had and making him feel truly repentant. _Lass, do yeh know_ , he thought, ruthlessly suppressing a surge of irritation, _what tears do to a man with a conscience? Nae, look at yeh. Yeh’re drowning meh._

“Lass,” he said gently, “please. I am sorry. It wasnae fair of meh. I’m nae good with this, and I thought I’d spare mehself a bit of trouble by just avoiding yeh. But instead of avoiding yeh, I put the boot in.”

It was still watery, her face, and he searched himself for something to say. “Look, lass, I dinnae want ta take anything from yeh that yeh don’t want to give. And I dinnae want to be….”

“Not special,” she said, her voice thick. “You and me both.” She sighed and let go of him, looking down at the floor wearily. “I’m sorry for crying on you. I was angry, and I just… I should have left you alone.”

“Dear sweet laird,” he snapped, “do yeh not know how bad I feel about this? Dinnae apologize for crying or being angry. Laird knows yeh been pushed to it.”

The Cook looked at him, confused. He swore and put his hands on her face. “Lass, yeh just….”

Her eyes were vaguely accusing, the hurt in them sentencing him to far more drinking to forget feeling helpless to stop himself from being an arsehole.

“Do yeh nae… can yeh nae…. Christ!” The Demo picked her up, arms around her, and bussed her within an inch of passing out from oxygen deprivation. After a shocked moment, she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around him and then her legs, the lab coat falling open.

When he drew back, she still looked confused but had stopped crying. “I don’t,” she said, “know what that was, but it was nice.”

He looked at the confusion on her face. “Yeh just don’t know, do yeh,” he said softly.

The Cook looked at him, misery coming back. “The Medic told me,” she said. “I … make everyone raw. I don’t mean to.”

The Demo growled and turned, taking two strides to the bed and sitting on it. “The croaker,” he said, “cannae see a thing but manages to shite all over it.” He sighed. “Yes, lass, yeh make some of us raw. And we dinnae handle it well. Believe it or nae, we dinnae always know what to do. I know yeh’ve been spending time with the snake and his friend, and if they have a moment of doubt I’ll be….”

She shrugged and he won the fight to keep eye contact. “They don’t let me see it.”

“Lass, there’s monsters and monsters, yeh ken? I’ll kill a man or open a safe, but I dinnae wank over it.”

The Cook flushed.

“Yea, I know yeh get a bit of charge from it. Some do. There’s more than that, though. This job, lass, is a job for meh. I get up in the morning, I do meh job, I come in and do a bit of drinking, and I go do meh job tomorrow.” He loosened his arms and she leaned back to see his face. “I know yeh been thinking about this as a moral problem, like yeh somehow become a monster, but yeh don’t have to put tha boot in for yourself.”

“Don’t you,” she said, searching his face. “Isn’t that why you drink?”

The Demo glared at her for a moment, then sighed again. “Perhaps a bit, lass. And perhaps I like the job sommat as well. I dinnae have to like that.” He looked down. “And perhaps I’ve been a bit lonely, lass. I dinnae want to lie to the lasses in town. I’m nae enough snake to enjoy that.”

She flushed again and he watched it spread across the tender skin of her breasts, then shook himself, tearing his eyes away from them. When he looked up, there was a question on her face.

“Lass,” he said, voice tight, “I’m just nae going ta do it unless I think yeh care. Mind yeh, it’s killing meh.”

“I like you,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t know about anything else. But I like you. You hurt my feelings, but you’re not… lying to me.” In an even smaller voice, she said, “And you’re pretty.”

The Demo took a deep breath— _dinnae do it_ , he said to himself sternly. _The lass is only here for a time. Dinnae do it. Say sommat else_. “The sharing is a bit of a problem for meh.”

“I…. Okay.” She pulled away to stand up and he dug his fingers into her ass, stopping her.

 _Dinnae do it,_  he said to himself. _Yeh don’t know if she can care about yeh_. “I dinnae say it was that much of a problem.” _Buggering shite_.

The Cook blinked, confused again.

 _Do yeh really not know, lass_ , he thought. “Did yeh end up doing anything with the Engineer?”

The Cook blinked. “Well, yes.”

“Lass”— _I’m doomed_ , he thought, _but I might as well enjoy the ride ta hell_ —“yer taking a shower first. Come on, I’ll bathe yeh. I could use a shower mehself.”

She blushed. “I… Sorry. Wait,” she said, looking up at him, “are you…”

The Demo interrupted her. “I know it doesn’t bother all of us, but it bothers me, so to the shower with yeh.”

The Cook stood and looked up at him, abashed and cringing slightly. “Sorry.”

“Oh fer the love of—,” the Demo shooed her toward the bathroom. “Stop that!”

She let him herd her toward the bathroom.

“Yer hair is still wet, so yeh won’t need a full scrub, but feel free to help meh. I was planning to help yeh.” The Demo turned the shower on and unwrapped his kilt, letting it spool onto the floor in a heap of wool. He stepped into the spray and gestured. “Come on, lass, it’s cold.” She joined him, huddling behind him for warmth. He turned in the spray, soap in hand, and started to run it over her slowly, deliberately.

“That’s—”

He cut her off, “not entirely for getting yeh clean. Are yeh ticklish?”

She giggled.

“So yes, yeh are. Ticklish here”—he wormed his slick fingers into her armpit—“and I bet yer ticklish here”—he ran soapy fingers over the underside of her breasts—“and here”—he reached down and ran the tips of his fingers over the skin just under the globes of her ass. “Stop squirming!”

She gasped, laughing. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not done, lass! Don’t make my job difficult.” He reached down, nudging her knees apart, and traced the seam of skin between lip and thigh. She squeaked at him, reaching for his arm. “And here? Yes, ticklish here.” He paused there, a soapy hand stroking gently, and she clung to his arm.

“All right, under the spray with yeh, and wash off.”

She slid past him and into the spray again, watching him and still giggling. “I’m going to get you. There has to be something ticklish on you, and I’m going to find it.”

“Is that so, lass? Well out from under the spray and see if yeh can.”

They passed again, and she pressed herself against him, dragging her breasts slowly across his chest.

He handed her the soap and lifted his arms with an amused smile. “Well, go on then. Find them.”

Annoyingly, he was not ticklish. He was, however, aroused to the point of being ready to burst into flames long before she was done soaping him up. He gave her the single towel and dried off with his kilt, walking into his bedroom. “All right, lass,” he said, turning to look at her, “we’re clean. I’m almost certain yer feeling a bit better—”

She cut him off by leaping on him and knocking him onto the bed. Crouching over him, she growled playfully.

“Is that so, lass?” He wrapped an arm around her and flipped them both over. “No, it’s my turn.”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do?”

“Lay on yer side, and face that way.” She looked at him, then rolled on her side, facing the wall. He climbed over her and lay behind her. “All right, now come down a bit and give me that leg.”

She obliged, letting him lift her top leg. With a quick squirm, he could rest his cock just against the outside of her lips. She looked over her shoulder at him. “It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

“Trust me,” he said, and reached between her legs. “Just a second,” he said, dipping fingers into her and gently stroking. Seconds later, he slid into her.

“Oh!”

He chuckled and scooted up slightly, with a wriggle of his hips. The Demo pulled her close to him, the angle shallower, and moved slowly, lazily forward. She could feel his breath on her back, and he hooked her leg over his hip so he could wrap his arms around her.

“Takes a flexible lass, but yeh appear to be fine.”

She made a noise between a moan and a sigh, well inside the border of happiness, and he smiled at her. “It’s a fine position for a bit of lazy fucking, and I can flip yeh up atop me later.” The slow, teasing pace continued, small pulses of his hips moving her inches back and forth on the bed, a warm lassitude pooling in her arms and legs. His arms squeezed gently as he stroked forward, watching her move with him, boneless and loose. She looked up and over her shoulder, eyes lazy and smiling gently, and he leaned forward those few inches to plant a kiss on her back.

“Little thing, aren’t yeh,” he said, and she could hear the gentle teasing in it.

“No,” she said in mock indignation. “It’s just that you’re all so tall.”

“Nah, they just didn’t feed yeh enough when yeh were growing up. Wee little thing.”

Her eyes closed and she let him rock her, face turned to the side. He watched the lines smooth from it and her lips swell, until he couldn’t take it anymore. “All right, up and around yeh go. I want ta see yehr face.”

They pulled apart and she climbed on top of him, straddling him. With a deep breath, she slid him into her. He watched the small muscle movements in her face avidly as he sank into her, then reached out for her hands. She opened her eyes to look at him, and he put them to his mouth and kissed them. The Cook looked at him, wide-eyed, both of them frozen and looking at each other. She flushed then, a gently rosy color that spread across her cheeks, her mouth open slightly and looking down at his.

On his face, she could see a question, and the edges of what could be hurt. She leaned down and kissed him, gently pulling her hands from his to cradle his face as he reached up and smoothed his down her sides. When she pulled away, her eyes were wet again. He gently swiped a thumb under her eye, picking up the moisture. The question was gone from his face, leaving a quiet wonder and longing.

Her face had an answer on it, and she pulled his hands to her mouth and kissed them. He moved when she did, gently, to watch her back move in a wave. “Lass, he said, “I dinnae know what we can promise each other, but I would like to see yeh happy.”

More tears, and she responded, whispering forlornly. “I’d like to make someone happy.”

“I dinnae know whether we’ll like each other later, but—”

She cut him off, putting a hand over his mouth. “Please,” she said softly. Her hips moved, up and down, slowly. The Demo took a deep breath and cupped her hips, kissing her hand. She cupped his face, staring down at him as she moved, and with a smile, he picked her rhythm up, one hand moving up her torso to knead a breast. With that, her gaze was broken and her head tilted up, letting him watch the line of her body moving above him, her hips moving in a ripple of muscle and skin.

“Please,” she said again, softly, the word echoing against the ceiling, and tightened around him. He reached down with both hands to get a better grip on her hips and thrust up harder, wringing a gasp from her, his fingers splayed across her sides to feel her breathing, to help her come up and down. Her hands moved across his chest, fingers massaging and she moved, passing the slow, soft tide of desire between them both.

The Demo watched her, face solemn, watching the bounce of her breasts as she came down, the soft longing on her face that turned to hunger, her beseeching expression becoming demanding. He sighed, long and slow, and then picked up the rhythm, fighting the tightness around him and her body above him, moving in waves spilling up and down her spine.

“Go,” he whispered. “Let meh see it. Give it to meh, so I can give mehself to yeh.”

He could see it wash through her, the pulsing of the muscles around him echoing through her in a low, quiet groan that went on and on until he could not resist it and joined her, a baritone note to her alto, whispering and languid as a pool.

When it stopped, she looked back down at him and kissed him again, a smile written on every line of her body. When she drew back, it was written on his.

“I dinnae know,” he said quietly, “if yeh would like this sort of thing.” A moment of anguish flickered on her face and he brought her hands to his face and kissed them again. “Lass, yeh are a complicated woman.”

“Not that complicated,” she said, old pain making small lines beside her eyes. “I just have problems expressing myself.”

“Lass,” he said, “don’t we all.” He helped her up, sliding out of her, and pulled her insistently down beside him, smoothing the line between her eyes with kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Civil Wars, "Poison and Wine"


	24. Chapter 24

They lay there for a few lazy hours, kissing when moved to, resuming the unhurried pace of his body in hers, neither worried nor moved to any particular completion, replete to simply touch and be touched. The afternoon light slid into the room at the same pace, sending fingers across the wall until it reached them. She sighed, regret coloring her voice like a drop of ink in a glass of water. “I have to go to work,” she said, and started to climb over him.

“Time to start dinner already?” The Demo pulled her down on top of him again, capturing her by the waist to rub himself against her. “Seems a bit early.”

She grinned wryly, hips moving with him for a moment to recapture the shimmering warmth of their hours together. “I think I’d better do something a bit elaborate to make up for the last week or so.”

“Probably a good idea, lass.” He shifted again, trying to find a better spot, and grinned when the skin of her nipples crinkled. “Well, on with yeh.”

The Cook laughed and pulled gently at the hands gripping her hips. “You have to let me go.”

“I’ve a better idea. They can all fend fer themselves, and you stay in bed.” One of his hands slid between her legs, tickling and teasing. She gasped, and for a moment writhed above his fingers.

“I have to,” she said, breathy, laughter dancing across her mouth.

The Demo sighed, and drew his fingers out of her. As she slid off him, he swatted her ass and she squealed, rubbing it and glaring at him. “If yeh don’t get out now, I’ll drag yeh back in, and this time it will nae be so lazy. I can make yeh forget what yeh have to do, or I’ll be interested in trying.”

She scooped up the lab coat, backing away from the bed and looking at the mischievous and entirely unrepentant expression on his face. He sat up abruptly. “I’ll count to three, lass, and if yeh’re still in here, yeh’re staying in here and we’ll see what tricks I may know that yeh like. One.”

The Cook threw the lab coat on inside out and backed out of the door, watching him square up to pounce, toes digging into the floor and weight shifting forward. He was still grinning, and she wanted rather badly to pounce back. She closed the door behind her and heard him. “Two.”

“I’m already out in the hall,” she protested, still smiling.

“I’m a dirty cheater, lass. Best run.” _And I dinnae mind cheating with meh whole body_ , he added. _Just ta see if yeh remember to make dinner and see if they’ll knock on the door_. _That’s a better afternoon than I’ve spent in awhile_.

She jogged down the hall, the sound of his chuckle fading before she reached her room. When she ducked through her door, still rosy cheeked with laughter and the short jog, she found the Pyro sitting on her bed, flicking a lighter on and off to watch the flame appear and disappear. He was back in the same battered, worn sweater and jeans, hair washed and dried into soft spikes. When she closed the door, he looked up, blinking.

“Hi,” she said, voice careful. “What’re you doing in here?”

His eyes slowly focused on her, the hazy brown becoming oddly lambent. “Why aren’t you making sweets anymore?”

“I’m sorry, Py, I’ve been very… sad.”

He stayed watching her, eyes focused on her hands where they clutched the lab coat. “You were visiting the Doctor. He’s been sad, too.” He cupped the lighter between both hands. “The medications make me think slowly, more slowly than I want to. But I’ve been thinking.”

The Cook walked a slow circle around him to her chest of drawers, refusing to turn her back to him, and started pulling out clothing. “Oh yeah? What’s on your mind?”

“You’re supposed to make us happy, but you haven’t been.”

“I’m really sorry.” The Cook quickly pulled on jeans, momentarily dropping the edges of the lab coat. Her breasts swayed as she pulled the jeans up and he watched them, remembering with a tinge of sadness that turned to irritation.

“Stop that.”

She froze. “Stop what, Py?”

“Stop dressing. I’m not a bad person and I’ve already seen you naked.” He started to frown, the expression drawing the scars on his face tight and making them pale. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Honestly? A little bit. The others tell me that you can be strange.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “This is a strange place to be strange. I don’t like that you’re afraid of me.”

“I’m sorry, Py.”

He got up slowly, walking toward her and watching her cringe with a deepening frown. “I don’t want you to be afraid. I want you to make me cakes and pies.” He stopped speaking, then laughed shortly. “A pie for Py.” When he reached her, he stood, hands loose at his sides, and looked at her, face wary and frustrated. “I want to make you happy the way we’ve made you happy. Maybe if I make you happy, you’ll let me play with fire. I want to leave a little flame on you, just a little pretty flame so you’ll remember me.”

The Cook felt a chill breeze run through her.

“But you won’t come see me by yourself. I don’t like it.” He reached out for her arms, gently, running his hands down them. “I don’t understand people, don’t understand how to make them happy, but I know if they’re happy, they let me be myself a little more.” She froze, watching his hands capture hers. “How do I make you happy,” he asked. “I can fuck you, like I did with the Doctor.”

“I….” She had no doubt he was sincere, nor did she doubt he genuinely wanted to make her happy. But the stories the other mercenaries had told her—she watched the worried, hopeful expression on his face, wondering what would happen if she told him no.

“You don’t like that idea.” He let go of her hands slowly, sadly, sliding them between his fingers to make the sensation last, echoing through his scarred fingers.

Her mouth was dry. “I’m a little afraid.”

“Do you dislike being afraid?” His eyes drifted to her face and latched on, becoming sharp again. She wondered how intelligent he was under the layer of anti-psychotics he was probably taking—the question had been perceptive, and his tone, while still soft, had a certain intensity that suggested an observant mind.

“Not entirely, but I don’t want you to hurt me too badly, and I have to make dinner.”

He looked forlorn. “Will you make me sweets? Can I come back and spend time with you? I get lonely.”

The Cook looked closely at his face. Even with the numbing of his drugs, he looked like a small child who had learned he was to be abandoned. “Would you like to help me in the kitchen?”

He smiled shyly. “Can I help you make sweets?”

“Sure, but I have to make other food as well.”

His smile grew more radiant, an edge of pleading in it like a single flat note in a chord.

“You have to let me put on more clothes, though. Grease burns are really painful.”

“Oh,” he said, blushing and stepping back. “I should have thought of that. Sorry.”

She dropped the lab coat and pulled a bra and sweater on, then rolled the sleeves up. Pulling on an old pair of sneakers, she gestured. “Come on, let’s go make something yummy.”

He reached out hesitantly for her hand and she let him hold it all the way to the kitchen.

 **< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>** 

The Pyro had insisted on cleaning the beaters for the cake batter off with his tongue, as well as the icing spoon, and had probably eaten a third of the homemade apple sauce for the pork chops. Surprisingly, he also sampled the mashed potatoes, treating everything in the kitchen like a rare treat. He watched her make the food, asking questions and gleefully stirring, chopping, minding the food, and listing the ingredients back to her. Everything he tasted, he praised with a shy, pleased expression, like a student who had the answers for a tough exam.

The Cook realized that he’d never had anyone sit down with him, or make him anything, or explain how things were made, and suppressed the surprise and pity before it could show on her face. Instead, she praised his memory, and let him see that she was pleased by his compliments. By the time dinner could be taken to the table, he was beaming in pleasure. He carried the dishes to the table gingerly, placing them so carefully they didn’t clink on the table. She sent him to fetch the rest of the mercenaries and sat at the table, waiting.

They came slowly, each eyeing the table as if unsure whether or not it would bite them. The Engineer was first, and relaxed instantly after the first bite. The Demo wandered in next, scratching his chest through his shirt, and served himself with a pleased smile, winking at her with an expression that hovered just on this side of being obscene. The Spy came in with a bottle of wine, whole body wincing, and took a deep breath before biting into the pork chop. He smiled at it and chewed slowly, leaning forward on his elbows. “Finally,” he took a swallow of his wine. “It has been painful to come to meals for the last week, _Vipere_.”

She snorted once and raised an eyebrow. “How French of you.”

“Stereotypes, _Vipere_ , are ugly things. Nevertheless, I would be lying if I did not say I enjoyed meals that were not a… punishment to the taste buds.”

The Sniper drifted in a little later and, like the carnivore he was, piled his plate primarily with pork. After a cursory bite of it with the apple sauce, he went back for more sauce and ate as if he had not eaten in days. Watching him, the Cook wondered if he had. The normally thin Sniper had been winnowed to a sinewy, veiny shadow.

The Soldier came in and sighed. “Damn it. I already ate, too.”

The Cook gave him a playfully angry look over a fork full of pork and apple sauce. “That’s what you get, Mister.”

“ _Vipere_ ,” the Spy said chidingly, “in his defense, the food has been hideous.” _Look at her_ , he thought. _She is cheerful, playful, joking. What did the Engineer do?_

“I’ll take my pork chops back,” she said, laughing. “Gimmie your plate.”

 _All that work_ , he thought. The Spy looked at her, eyes cool. “I think not. No, if the food is worth eating, I’ll keep it. And you won’t be taking anything from me that I do not want to give.”

She sighed— _why can’t I have a whole day of simple enjoyment_ , she thought. _I have more right to be angry about what you did than you do to be mad at me_. “There it is. I wondered if you could resist.”

“Sneak,” the Sniper said, “later.”

The Spy looked at him, a flash of dark anger appearing and disappearing like smoke, but he said nothing about the Sniper’s use of his pet name. The Medic and Heavy were quite late to dinner, and both were sweaty. The Cook smiled briefly at her plate, relieved that they were again talking, at the calm both men seemed to have gained. The Medic pulled his chair close to the Heavy during dinner, and their conversation, in German, was hushed and intimate.

The Spy looked over at them, then at the Cook. “I see you’ve been busy mending fences.”

She looked at him for a moment, temper rising under the combination of needling and resentment she could hear in his voice. “The ones that needed mending.”

He gave her a long, sardonic look before speaking. “The ones that needed mending?”

“Why,” she said, holding his gaze with hers. “Have I missed a few?”

The table went silent slowly, the silence spreading in ripples. The Spy smiled, slowly, and said nothing, the smile slowly curving up as his mouth opened, baring his teeth. She watched it, narrowing her eyes, and said nothing. The Sniper broke the silence. “We’ll be talking later, little bird.”

The Cook turned her head to look at the Sniper. “I can see that. We’re due some more knife practice. Should I assume we’ll talk then?”

He looked at her with a wry smile. “You could assume that, Birdie.”

She made a flip little salute with her hand and went back to her food. The Cook could feel, rather than see, the Spy’s face heating. He left the table abruptly, pushing his chair back with a tortured squeal, his plate still mostly full. After a moment, the Sniper left as well.

The conversation picked back up quietly. The Pyro leaned over, breaking the Medic’s conversation with the Heavy. “Doctor, can I have your company tonight? I need help.” The Pyro’s eyes slid quickly toward the Cook, who swallowed heavily.

The Medic blinked. “Ah, no. I’m afraid I cannot help you tonight.” The Heavy reached out for his hand, possessively. “I must spend time with my Mischa.”

It was the Soldier who responded, quietly. “I’ll help, if you like Py.” He refused to make eye contact with the Pyro or the Cook. “I’ll… I can be helpful.”

The Engineer cleared his throat. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, fellas.”

The Soldier and Pyro stared at him, the Soldier with the anger of intense, frustrated guilt, and the Pyro with defensive ire. The Engineer lifted his hands. “Fellas, no offense, but ya’ll can both be a little intense.”

“We’ll be fine,” the Soldier said, quietly.

"Miss,” the Engineer turned to the Cook. “You okay with this?”

She sighed, thinking about the guilt on the Soldier’s face and the frustrated loneliness on the Pyro’s face. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” After a moment, the Cook realized that she did, actually, feel safe about it—the Pyro had done nothing in particular to her except ask for her company, and his behavior in the kitchen had been boyishly pleased. The Soldier, despite her other thoughts about him, had tried to be helpful. Neither man appeared in be interested or capable of the kind of sustained violence and manipulation that had been plaguing her. “I trust them.”

The Soldier squared his shoulders as if preparing for an unpleasant duty, but the Pyro’s radiant smile came back, pulling the scars on his face and reaching his eyes, where it made them shimmer. She smiled back, at first tentatively, then more genuinely.

“All right.” The Engineer sighed. “But be careful, Missy.” He turned to the Soldier. “Don’t let him”—the Engineer nodded toward the Pyro—“bring any of his toys with him.”

The Cook looked over at the Engineer. “I’m not made of glass. I promise I won’t break.”

“That’s not what I worried about. I’m worried about you melting. That’s not a pleasant death, not nearly as pleasant as getting shot or stabbed and bleeding out.”

“I won’t,” the Pyro cleared his throat. “I won’t melt her.”

The Engineer sat back slightly, disbelief tugging the corners of his mouth down. “Py, I’ll hold you to that.”

The Demo finally spoke, his voice grim. “As will I.”

The Pyro’s face slowly grew more tense, mouth flattening. “I can behave myself when I want to.”

The Engineer held up us hands, again. “All right, I’ve said my piece. I ain’t no one’s mommy.” _Lord_ , he thought, in something that was not quite a prayer nor a plea, _I just spent the morning trying to get the girl to smile. Let her smile for awhile, fellas._

The Cook looked at him and tried not to laugh. The Engineer looked confused for a moment before he figured out the joke, and then he started chuckling. The Demo looked over. “Something funny?”

“Private joke,” the Cook said, and wondered if the Engineer had made the tutu yet.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

Both the Pyro and the Soldier stayed after dinner, helping her tidy the dining room, wash the dishes, and wipe the counters and oven down. The Pyro had quickly gone back to his radiant smile, and bounced gently on his toes as he dried pans and dishes. The Soldier, however, stayed quiet and withdrawn, moving mechanically from chore to chore without words. The Cook paused, up to her forearms in soapy water, to watch him.

“What’s going on, Solly?”

He flinched and did not speak.

“Come on, Solly, what’s eating you?”

He looked over at her, his eyes eloquently sad. She sighed and pulled her hands from the water, giving them a quick dry by wiping them on her jeans. Walking over to him, she reached slowly for his arm. When he pulled back, she paused, then with an angry scowl, grabbed his arm. “Damn it, Solly. Come on.”

The Soldier, in one quick move, picked the Cook up by the arms. “Do not,” he growled, “touch me without my permission.”

The Cook, her feet dangling inches from the ground, snarled back at him, startled. “Do not expect to be ignored when you’re doing your best imitation of a sad puppy.”

The Soldier’s face slowly flushed as his fingers tightened— _a sad puppy_ , he thought. _I have spent the last eight days terrified I’ve permanently damaged you and I’m a sad puppy. A sad fucking puppy._ With a grunt, he slung her over one shoulder. “Py, the kitchen is as done as it needs to get. Come on.”

The Pyro, trying to suppress a smile, laid the towel on the counter and followed the Soldier out of the room. The Cook, breathless and uncomfortable, started to struggle, pushing at the Soldier’s back with her arms and swearing. The Soldier tightened his arm and swatted her, hard, across the ass with his opposite hand. Even with the force dispersed by her jeans, the swat hurt, and she squeaked.

“No,” the Soldier said, “I’ve had just about of this, Rosie.” _I have been guilty_ , he raged at her silently, _I’ve felt like shit, I’ve put up with Sneak picking a fight with you and me both, and if fucking you is the only way to get your goddamn attention, I am going to fuck you into the floor._

“Why,” she said, acidly. “Were you planning on actually telling me what’s wrong and resolving whatever it is that’s eating you?”

He answered with another swat, hard enough to sting even his calloused hand. “We are going,” he said, “to your room, because I’m not getting my bed this dirty.”

She froze. “Wait a minute. What?”

“Shut up, Rosie. Now duck, or you’ll hit your head on the door frame.”

She let herself go limp to pass under the door frame and looked over to see the Pyro, grinning wildly. He shut the door with an ominous click and circled them both to put a lighter and a bit of copper wire from his pockets on the nightstand. “Don’t mind me.”

The Soldier dumped her on the bed hard enough to bounce her to the wall and threw his helmet at the wall near the door, leaving a dent.

“Ah, the infamous temper,” she said, slightly breathless. “Well, at least this is more honest than the moping.”

The Soldier took a single, heavy breath, fingers clenching and unclenching, then walked forward and reached across the bed, pulling her up by the shirt and wrapping his fingers around her neck. She tilted her head up to stare at him, daring him to squeeze, eyes darkening in wrath and staring, unblinking, at him. He obliged, slowly tightening his fingers. As the tingling flush crept up her cheeks, oxygen draining from her blood faster for the hammering of her heart, she reached for the buttons on his BDUs. She found him achingly hard, trapped against his own hip by the fabric of his pants.

As she stroked him through the cotton, he shuddered, fingers tightening again. Her vision started to throb, body pleading for air, and as her limbs started to get heavy, she made herself keep staring and stroking him, the same red and terrible joy she’d experienced with the Sniper coming back like an old friend—washing away fear and regret, leaving lust in its wake and the desire to conquer. She could see it in him, his body yearning toward hers and away as if grasping a live wire. He could neither let go nor stay, wavering, throbbing, teetering on the edge of the battlefield and the bedroom.

She smiled at him then, daring him, hurtling toward unconsciousness with a reckless abandon that did not care if she lived or died, only that she continued to be stretched between the thoughtless savagery of heaven and the earth of her body for as long as she could, her hand on his cock taking him there with her to see which of them could remain longest. His breath grew short, eyes wide and pupils swallowing the sight of her with his hands around her neck, body pulsing in time to hers.

The Pyro sat on the bed near them with a thump, breaking the Soldier’s concentration.

The Soldier blinked and grudgingly let his fingers loosen, keeping them tight enough to leave a heavy necklace around her neck. The Cook took a gasping breath, her chest heaving, and kept stroking him, the same challenging expression on her face as it lightened from the purple it had been to its normal, pale hue.

As they stared at each other, the Pyro spoke. “This works better with less clothes. If you both don’t start stripping soon, I will cut them off.”

“Touch me,” the Soldier panted, still staring at the Cook, “and I will send you through respawn.”

The Cook spoke, her voice raspy. “So it isn’t just for bad dreams.” She looked down at the erection trapped in the Soldier’s pants and gave him a quick, hard squeeze. “You like to strangle.” She took a hoarse breath. “You were there, weren’t you? You saw what they did. Did you help them fuck me?”

The Soldier choked, hands spasming, and she watched him with eyes like stone. “Did you help them rape me, Solly? Did you enjoy it?”

He looked at her, guilt greening his stricken face, before whispering. “No.”

She kept her hand moving, watching him.

“I didn’t… I’m not a rapist.”

“Then why did you shower me?” He was still hard against her hand, body twitching with the desire to run or stay.

“I wanted to help,” he whispered, eyelids flickering, and rage rushed in to fill the emptiness on his face. The Soldier pulled his hands from her neck. “Take your clothes off,” he snarled, “or I’ll rip them off you.”

She smiled, her face incandescent, eyes dark and wet. “Take yours off, then.”

“Oh, I will Rosie, but when I want to. Naked. Now.”

She pulled the sweater off slowly, taking her time to watch him fume. The Pyro pulled it from her hands and dropped it off the end of the bed. The Soldier crossed his arms, fingers digging into his elbows with the need to punish, to grip and to bruise and to make her cry, a reddish haze hanging around the edges of his vision. The Cook laid flat on the bed to take her jeans off, wriggling with insolent slowness out of them before kicking them off, onto the Soldier’s feet. Naked, she stayed laying there, staring at the Soldier with a mocking little smile. His hands were white with tension, and he took a quick breath before slowly letting go of his forearms.

“Like being drunk, isn’t it,” she said, merciless in her certainty. “Doubts gone, pain gone. Fuck or kill like the flick of a switch. And you don’t like that you feel that way, do you?”

He made a noise like a snarl and grabbed the front of his uniform shirt, pulling. Several buttons hit her, and she watched him rip his clothes off. The Pyro, smile exposing the edge of his canines, stood and undressed quickly, leaving a messy pile at the foot of her bed.

The first slap was lightning fast, bouncing her head sideways on the bed and cutting her lip. She grinned up at him, blood in the divots between her teeth. The second landed lower, bouncing her breast against its twin. The third landed on the other breast, leaving the long blotches of his fingers that whitened, then blushed blue.

The Cook laughed, high and excited, and reached for the Soldier, sitting up. He grabbed her wrists and forced them back against the bed, breath laboring in his chest.

The Pyro reached between them, painfully pinching her closest nipple and wringing a hiss from her, then grabbed and wadded her hair into a fist. “Fuck her and stop fucking around. Or let me.”

“This, too, Rosie?” The Soldier’s voice quivered slightly.

“This, too, Solly.” She pulled a leg out from under his weight, pinching them both as the skin rubbed together, then repeated it on the other side, wrapping her legs around him. “Want to scare me? Too bad.” She rubbed herself against him, undulating, and the Pyro’s hand in her hair made her scalp burn. “Try harder.”

The Soldier let one of her wrists go to guide himself in, then put both hands on her neck and squeezed. She laughed, excited, and undulated again, squeezing his cock, her face alight with an unholy, savage glee, her hands cupping his. “Try me,” she breathed, the world burning behind her eyes.

His gray eyes widened, then he pulled back slightly before slamming himself into her, fingers tightening as he came down. Her fingers stayed gentle as her face blushed with oxygen deprivation again, and he released as he pulled back before tightening again.

“Wet,” she whispered.

The Pyro tugged her hair. “One kind calls another, pretty Cook.”

Her laughter was weak and clear. She smiled up at the Soldier, who had started to sweat. “Fuck me because we’re alike, because this makes you as hard as it makes me wet.”

He shuddered, his arms shaking with the strain of holding himself up, of not tightening until he felt the faint, clear crack of bone breaking. Her eyes widened, body starting to panic, but she refused to tighten her hands, to fight for her life, staying staring at his eyes, at his face tightening as his cock started to throb. Every jolt of his body in hers set her scalp to burning again, the Pyro’s hand slowly winding tighter.

“Don’t kill her, Solly,” the Pyro said dryly, “or I’ll be very annoyed.”

The fog around the corners of her vision kept gathering, oblivion coming closer, and she could feel the heat gathering between her legs, a violent surging tide that pounded with her pulse and harder as her pulse started to go thready, failing. The Soldier let go just long enough for her to take a breath. Her orgasm knifed up her spine as she pulled in a labored breath and she fell back, limp and twitching. With a last, spiteful squeeze of her neck, the Soldier shouted and let go, falling forward heavily.

The Pyro unwound his hand, bringing it back to his thigh, and watched them pant, a necklace of bruises rising on her neck. He rose, circling them, and grabbed lighter and wire, and went back to his position on the bed. While he waited for them to be able to move, he set about bending the copper wire into a small, spiky, stylized flame. By the time the Soldier detangled himself, rolling over, the Pyro had finished the flame. The Soldier curled with his back to them both, eyes blank with horror.

“Goddamn it,” the Cook croaked. “No, you don’t.”

The Pyro echoed her. “Have an attack of conscience later, Solly.”

She rolled over, spooning the Soldier. “It’s okay,” she whispered.

The Soldier said nothing, but started shivering.

“Solly,” she whispered, “Please.”

He hunched further. “You are just as fucked up as I am.”

She flinched slightly, and he could feel it like a slap in the face, an accusation made in a mirror, bouncing back and forth between them, guilt that made them both reckless. The Pyro reached out for her hair again, drawing her body back toward him with it with a violent jerk.

“Solly,” he said, “it’s my turn now.” Looking down at the gasping Cook, he smiled and twirled the shaped wire. It took her a moment to identify the shape, and she paled, then went limp in his lap. The Pyro smiled at her, then looked at the Soldier. “Gonna help or feel sorry for yourself?”

The Soldier turned over slowly. When he caught sight of the wire, he tensed. “What are you going to do with that, Py?”

“Play with fire.” At the Soldier’s alarmed expression the Pyro snorted. “Stop that. I’m not going to do anything too awful. I want a cuddle later. Gonna help?”

“Should I be calling the Doc?” The Soldier propped himself up on one elbow, staring at the shorter mercenary.

“No. You call the Doctor and he’ll dope me up too high to get hard. Now, are you going to help?”

“I will, but you be careful.”

The Pyro’s crooked grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure.” He looked down at the Cook. “Ever been burned, Pretty Cook?”

She gave a rasping, exhausted chuckle and raised her arms, turning them so he could see the shiny speckles of scars dotting them. The Pyro leaned forward and kissed the inside of each wrist on one of the tiny scars. “The fire kisses and leaves its mark.”

He leaned back, hand still bunched in her hair. “I want to leave my mark.” He nodded to the bruises around her neck. “He’s left his. It’s my turn.” He pulled her hair until her head could rest on his crossed ankles. “Gonna be still, or should I have Solly sit on your legs?” He looked at the Soldier. “If you want to play with that end of her, you can. She might even like it.”

The Soldier sighed deeply and sat up, scooting in until he could put her legs in his lap, then dug rough fingers in her hips. “She’s going to kick. I’ll hold.”

The Pyro shrugged, and the Cook watched the scars across his collarbone roll, despair ringing her like a bell. He reached down, feeling along his leg, and came back up with a lighter. “It’s not a blowtorch, but anything else would have made someone stop me.” He looked down at the Cook, her hair pooling in his lap. “Not a deep burn, Pretty Cook, but a little something to remember me by.”

He flicked the lighter, holding the tab down carefully with the scarred tip of his thumb, and played the flame over the bit of wire, which started to smoke. “Only a little burn,” he crooned, looking at the combination of panic and despair on her face.

The Pyro took a breath and touched the smoldering wire to the soft skin of the Cook’s shoulder. She took a single, choked breath in and went rigid, eyes white all around her pinprick pupils. The Pyro laughed and pulled the wire from her shoulder, taking a bit of curled skin with it. He shook the lighter with his free hand to cool it. “I’ll have to wait for the lighter to cool. How does that feel, pretty Cook?”

The Cook couldn’t get enough air to answer him, her fists wrapping themselves in the blankets. The burn started blistering immediately, the seared skin swelling. The pain blinded her, and his words took a few seconds to reach her. A broken, croaking moan trickled from her lips and her tears trickled in a steady stream down her cheeks, pooling in her hair and ears.

“Py,” the Soldier said, “I think we’re going to have to tell the Doc.”

The Pyro looked up, eyes narrowing. “One more and you can. But I’m not leaving.”

The Soldier looked nauseous, watching the Cook struggle for breath and the missing skin on her arm swell to fill and become raised. “She’s going to faint.”

“If she does,” the Pyro said, “it’ll be as much you as me.” He looked down, his face growing softer. “One more, Pretty Cook,” he crooned. “To match my uniform.”

At that, she did start to kick. The Pyro dropped the wire on her bed, where it browned the blanket, and put a hand on her chest. “Just one more,” he said. “It won’t last, I promise. He’ll get the Doctor and it will go away. Then we’ll do something you like.” He stroked her face gently. “You were so kind to me today, and I just wanted to give you something to remember.”

She gasped once and went limp, staring at him. “Pain you can’t get away from, you endure. You know this, don’t you?” He smiled once, sadly, the scars on his cheek pulling. “Me, too. I wanted to share it with you.”

The Pyro grabbed the wire and flicked the lighter back on, the small shreds of skin on the wire crisping with a familiar, meaty smell. “All flesh burns eventually,” he said. “It burns up.” Small flecks fell from the wire, cinders raining down on her chest. “From the stars to our bodies when we die, we burn up.” He watched the wire start to smoke, eyes intent on the flame. “Passion burns a wetter flame, not as clean and beautiful.”

He pulled the lighter away and, with a quick look to ensure that both sides would be even, pressed the wire to the skin of her other shoulder. She tried to take a deep breath again and fainted, her eyes rolling up in her head. The Pyro sighed, pulling the wire from her shoulder, and smiled.

“You can go get the Doctor now,” he said. The Soldier bolted from the room, still naked, yelling for the Medic.

The Pyro tossed the wire over his shoulder and, shaking the lighter to cool it, stroked her face with the other hand, singing quietly as he waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Hozier, "Arsonist's Lullabye"


	25. Chapter 25

The Medic came at a run, wearing a pair of pajama pants and the rig for the medigun. The Heavy came behind him, wearing the sheet as a toga. The Pyro sat, cross-legged, on the bed, the Cook’s head in his lap, her red hair pooled around her. Her face was milk-pale, and angry, raised burns leaked a clear fluid onto her blanket. The clear imprint of hands around her neck was blue purple, and several other bluish bruises spread their fingers across her chest.

The Pyro turned calm eyes to the Medic. “Don’t worry, she’s not dead.”

The Medic swore fluently in German for some time and flicked the gun on. The warm, red beam faded the burns from her arms and the bruises from her neck and chest. She took a deeper breath, still unconscious. “I should have known better,” the Medic snarled. He turned to the Soldier. “I expect the Pyro to be himself. But you!”

The Soldier flinched under the Medic’s enraged glare. The Medic carefully put the medigun down and walked to the bed. “Let me have her, Pyro.”

The Pyro looked up at him calmly. “No. This time I’m not leaving, and neither is she. You can wake her up, but you can’t have her.”

The Medic stopped, astounded, as the Pyro continued. “And if you have Heavy hold me down to tranquilize me, I’ll resist.” He smiled, nastily. “You’ll win, but it’ll cost you.”

“Why,” the Medic asked, tone pleading. “Do you not understand that you will terrify her? Do you not understand that she will not want to see you when she wakes?”

The Pyro looked at him. “We’ll see when she wakes up. Wake her up.”

The Medic’s mouth firmed into a pale line and he spoke to the Heavy in Russian. The Heavy nodded, and left quickly. The Medic approached the bed slowly, arms in the air. “I’m going to sit down and check on her. _Ist gut_?” When the Pyro said nothing, he crouched down by the edge of the bed, checking her pulse from the fat vein in her wrist and running a quick hand over her throat and the skin of her shoulders.

“Well, at least _the_ re appears to be no permanent damage.”

The Heavy came back with a small kit, in his own pajama pants, and stood behind the Pyro.

“You can do it,” the Pyro repeated. “But it will cost you.” He placed the lighter down gently next to his thigh.

The Medic opened the kit, removing a single plastic ampoule that he broke under the Cook’s nose. She turned her head, trying to get away from it, and seconds later blinked into awareness with a startled grunt. She looked around, eyes rolling wildly and finally settling on the Pyro’s head above hers.

“I see,” she whispered, then, realizing she could, said, “We’ve attracted some company.”

“ _Fr_ _äulein_ ,” the Medic said, “these _verrückte männer_ should not be left alone with you, but the Pyro is insisting. Do you want me to clear the room?”

“You don’t have to remove me,” the Soldier said quietly. “I’ll leave.” He started to gather his clothes, leaving the buttons strewn across the room.

The Cook looked at the Medic, eyes narrowed. “Is it only safe when you hurt me?”

He paled, then glared at her. “I have already done something I regret because of anger. Are you trying to goad me into something more?”

Her laugh was still rusty, as if something in her throat had been permanently damaged. “I can’t make you do shit. I’m grateful you healed me. Now get the hell out.”

The Medic took a sharp breath, clawed hands reaching, and she stared at him levelly. He snarled and stood, spinning on his heel. The Heavy appeared to be trying not to laugh as he followed his lover out. The Soldier started after them, and the Cook stopped him. “Not after that, you don’t,” she said, rage trembling in her voice. “You have to come hold me, now.”

He turned back toward the bed reluctantly and laid his clothes in a heap by it, then sat on the very edge of the bed.

The Pyro shifted his legs under her head. “What should we do for you, pretty Cook?”

The tremor in her voice grew, leaving it trembling on the edge of tears. “I should make you both spend the rest of the night eating me out, but I really want to be held.” She sat up carefully, then put herself in the middle of her bed. “I don’t care who takes which side, but you’re going to come here, hold me, and talk to me. We can all be fucked up together.”

The Soldier winced. After a tense moment, the Soldier squirmed between the Cook and the wall, and the Pyro lay in front of her, looking her in the face. The Soldier raised an arm, looking over her shoulder at the Pyro, who shrugged.

“Pick something,” the Pyro said to him. “I don’t care if I touch you.”

The Soldier wrapped an arm stiffly around her waist and the Pyro snuggled into them both, stroking the Cook’s face. After a few minutes she said. “I won’t ask how many of us had happy childhoods.”

The Pyro’s hand stilled and the Soldier tensed further. She continued. “I won’t even ask what this little war has been doing to you.” Both men stopped breathing. “But I do have a question: how did you both fight free of that undertow?”

“Undertow?” The Soldier’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Maybe that’s my word for it,” she said. “That darkness. The… like you’re drowning.”

“Burning,” the Pyro said. “Like being consumed.”

The Soldier stayed silent. She nudged him with her elbow, gently, and he finally answered. “Like acid. Like being eaten away from the inside out, until you’re hollow.”

“How did either of you escape it?”

The Pyro looked at her. “Into the fire, until fire is all there is and I am gone, and then there is only pain and the memory of the flame.”

The Soldier’s voice whispered behind her. “Until there is no thought, just being faster than the man in front of you. Until there is no memory, just your heart heaving in your chest and the other man laying dead at your feet. Until you are dead, and gone, and free.”

Her eyes closed. “Until I have become empty. Until desire and pain have passed through me like a tide, taking memory and grief and leaving nothing.”

They clung to each other for a moment, their memories filling the space around them. She broke the silence. “Who—”

The Pyro looked at her, the skin under his eyes shivering. “They don’t check on you. No one wants you and no one checks on you. They just leave you with the first person to volunteer.”

“He burned,” she said.

“Yes,” the Pyro said. “He burned.” His arms tightened. “He burned and I watched until the flames were gone, feeding them until he was ash.”

The Cook reached out for the Pyro, drawing him closer, and he touched his forehead to hers. The Soldier reached past her, laying a tentative hand on the Pyro’s arm. “The world was a little cleaner afterward, Py.” When the Pyro didn’t push his hand away, he curled it gently around the Pyro’s arm, cuddling them both closer.

“I... I wish I had been there,” the Soldier said quietly. “I wish I had seen my father die. When they told me, I couldn’t cry. I wasn’t even sure I was sad. I just put my gear down and went for a walk. I kept walking the perimeter over and over until they held me down and sedated me.”

The Pyro reached out gently for the Soldier, wrapping an arm around him. “I hate it when they do that.”

She laughed once, bitterly, and said nothing. The Pyro kissed her forehead once, gently, before speaking. “I let the Doctor do it sometimes because it lets me stop thinking. Because it makes him feel better.”

She tilted her head up and the Pyro returned to kiss her lips, at first gently, then harder, driving a small moan from her with tongue and lips and teeth.

“That’s it for you, Rosie,” the Soldier said, “isn’t it? You’re fucking for comfort.”

She leaned back slightly, breaking the kiss. “Sometimes for comfort, sometimes to stop thinking, sometimes for affection, sometimes for fun. Sometimes,” she whispered, “because I care.”

The Pyro looked at them both with a sad little smile. “Isn’t that what we learn how to do? That’s what we get used for, and it’s what we learn how to do.”

The Cook flinched, and he sighed. “I don’t always understand, Pretty Cook. There are parts of me that just…” It was silent for a moment. “I know what people think of me,” the Pyro said, inchoate frustration and longing in his voice. “I can’t tell them what they need to hear. But I can fuck them and make them happy, if they’ll let me close enough.”

She looked at him, grief and old guilt eating away at her face. The Pyro looked back, the same guilt and old grief on his. “Pretty Cook, this is how I can talk to you.” He kissed her, gently waiting for her lips to respond, and when they did he smiled into them. He pulled back. “I know this language. You do too, don’t you?”

The first tear spilled from her eyes and the Pyro reached out and licked it delicately from her cheek. “Let me talk to you,” he said. “Let me understand someone. Stay with us.”

“I don’t…. I can’t stay,” she whispered. “Everyone wants me to stay, but this is a temporary contract and I can’t stay.”

“I think you will,” the Soldier said, his voice full of shared memory. “I think you’ll stay because we understand you.” His hand drifted lower, fingers trailing slowly across the skin of her hip. “You’ll stay because you won’t find us anywhere else, because we’ll let you be who you are without trying to make you someone else. Rosie, we may be the only people on base who will let you be yourself.”

His fingers wormed between her legs, dipping inside her. “Because we will never let you get bored, and you’ll never have to run away.”

Her spine arched and the Pyro put a hand on her chin, capturing it and leaning in to continue the kiss.

In her ear, the Soldier said, “Because you can care about us. Because you are just as broken as we are.” He bit her neck gently, then touched his lips to her ears. “Because it means you won’t be alone.”

The Pyro reached out for a breast without breaking the kiss, his fingers kneading hard enough to bring another flow of prickling tears to her closed eyes. The Soldier grunted and lifted her leg, scooting down slightly so that he could slide the tip of himself into her. The Pyro looked down, and seeing what the Soldier was doing, smiled.

“We can make you happy, pretty Cook. Let us make you happy.” He leaned in, pressing his warm skin to hers, and reached down between her legs, stroking, fingers tracing the lips the Soldier slid between and gently thrumming the clit atop them. She shook and kept crying, her face slowly flushing and nipples tightening. “Let us make you happy, pretty Cook.” The Pyro reached for the back of her neck, still stroking, and pressed his face to hers. “We won’t leave you lonely.” He leaned forward, biting at the side of her neck in small, sharp nibbles.

“Let go, Rosie,” the Soldier said. “Let go and be yourself.”

Her mouth fell open and she took a sobbing breath, the tension of months of being pushed and shaped breaking over her and stripping the flesh away, leaving the raw wires of her body screaming into the air.

“Let it out, Pretty Cook,” the Pyro whispered. “Let us give you something.”

The Cook reached out for the Pyro, cuddling him to her, and the Soldier tightened his arm. The Pyro leaned back slightly and went back to kissing her, the warm salt from her tears mixing in their mouths. She went limp between them, letting them rock her closer and closer to that shining point.

“That’s it, Rosie,” the Soldier said breathlessly in her ear.

Closer, closer, her mind emptying but for the feel of skin on hers, the feel of their bodies pressed against hers, a shimmering pool of warmth filling like a cup. The Pyro’s fingers became rough, flicking hard and harder and she made a pained whimper into his mouth. The pool spilled out with her breath into a heat that passed through her in a warm wave and she stopped breathing, utterly limp. The Soldier made a noise in the back of his throat and bunched up to fuck her harder, mashing her body into the Pyro, who laughed, a childlike sound of unfettered joy.

“Breathe, Rosie,” the Soldier panted. “Breathe.”

The Pyro bit her tongue, and she took a single, gulping gasp of air. His face was radiant, a smile that had nothing of his guarded worry in it, nothing but the joy of being able to be close to someone else. “Better, pretty Cook?”

She smiled, her eyes still leaking tears. “Better.”

The Soldier stilled and started to squirm so he could pull himself out of her.

“Please don’t go,” she said. “Just… stay there.”

“I’m eventually going to fall out, Rosie-girl.”

“I don’t care, I just want….”

He put her leg down gently atop its mate and stayed inside her, pressed close against her body.

She looked at the Pyro. “Come up, some.”

The Pyro blinked, then smiled, and scooted up until he was propped on his side.

“Scoot down a bit,” she said, and the Soldier wrapped an arm around her waist and scooted them both down until she could get the Pyro’s cock in her mouth. The Soldier picked her leg back up, pulling it over his hip, and reached between her legs. The Cook reached up for the Pyro with both hands, wrapping one around his hip and the other around the base of his cock, pulling at him gently, trying to tell him with hands and mouth what he had done for her.

“I was thinking, pretty Cook,” the Pyro said, “about your face when I burned you. I was thinking about,” his eyes fluttered closed and his hips moved gently, “about the moment before I burned you. About your eyes going wide and the smoke rising from the wire. I was thinking about the flame kissing the wire and your face and knowing that you would burn.”

He smiled down at her again. “The beautiful fire kissing the wire and the moment it burned you, the look on your face.” His fingers knotted in her hair. “The smell of you burning. I was thinking about the flame and how much I wanted to burn you.”

She squeezed the Soldier, who moved faster, watching her head bob. She groaned around the Pyro’s cock, vibrating it, and he moaned low, his voice rough.

“Rosie,” the Soldier said, “I have another one in me, so I’m going to stop teasing. If you come up on your knees, you can still do what you’re doing, and I can get what I want a little better.”

She opened her mouth, releasing the Pyro, then pulled herself slowly off the Soldier and came up on her hands and knees. The Pyro sat back, and the Soldier knee-walked behind her, sliding into her with a relieved sigh.

The Pyro knotted his fingers in her hair and brought her head back. “I was thinking,” he said softly, “about the taste of your tears and the way your face went red when I burned you. You shook, when I burned you.” His voice grew rougher. “I was thinking about the sight of my flame on your skin, about knowing you’ll remember me.” He bucked up into her mouth. “I was thinking about the flame and your skin and making you faint.” The Pyro shuddered. “Fuck, the way you fainted.”

Over her head, the Soldier spoke. “The way you went limp when I put my hands around your neck, the way you squeeze me.”

“Mmmmm,” the Pyro said, “she does squeeze. And she—,” his thought was cut off by an inarticulate cry, his whole body twitching.

“Yes, she does,” said the Soldier. “She squeezes.” His words trailed off in a guttural moan as she clamped down around him, feeling his cock jerk. They froze for a second, eyes closed.

The Pyro sighed and gently tapped the side of her mouth. “Let go, Pretty Cook, and let’s get some sleep.”

The Soldier slowly slid out of her and went back to laying on his side by the wall. Cuddling in tight, they made room for the Pyro, who turned his back to the Cook and let her wrap an arm around him.

“It’s a bit tight, Rosie-girl, but I don’t want to go yet. We’ll see if I can sleep like this.”

She smiled, tired. “I can.”

The Pyro shrugged. “We’ll see, but I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t,” she murmured. “Stay with me. Both of you, stay with me.”

The Soldier put his chin on top of her head and let his arm drift around the Pyro, who stiffened momentarily then let the Soldier hold him.

They fell asleep like that.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

When she woke with the alarm, the Pyro was gone. The Soldier had somehow managed to end up with the majority of the bed and was laying half on top of her, face down, snoring quietly in her ear. She tried to squirm out from under him, but he tightened his arm, pulling her back. “Toll for getting out to turn the alarm off is coming back,” he rumbled.

“I have to make breakfast.” She pushed gently at his shoulder. “Come on, let me turn the alarm off.”

He grumbled and let her slide out to turn off the alarm, then grabbed her arm as she passed the bed again and pulled her back in. “I said come back.”

The Cook looked at him with a mix of amusement and frustration in her voice. “Breakfast! I have to make breakfast!”

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, a predatory gleam in his visible eye. “Here or the kitchen.”

She gasped and he chuckled. “Here or the kitchen, Rosie?”

“Would you really….” She trailed off, mouth gaping in shock at the change in his demeanor.

The Soldier rolled over, pulling her on top of him. “Are they going to think I’m any crazier, Rosie? And they know what you like, even if they don’t know why. So pick one.” He looked at nubs of her nipples. “Exhibitionist or just that eager to get back to fucking?”

“None of your business.” She folded her arms over her nipples and grinned teasingly at him.

“Kitchen it is, then.” The Soldier sat up, pulling her legs around his waist, and scooted to the edge of the mattress to stand.

She squeaked and smacked his shoulder. “You would not!”

He grinned at her and stood. “Where do you keep your apron?”

“Why,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing with a dreadful suspicion.

The Soldier leaned forward to put his lips against her ear and whispered, “splash-guard.”

She squeaked again. “You son of a bitch, now I know you’re joking.”

His arms tightened and he chuckled. “Only slightly, Rosie, only slightly. I’ve been dying to put you on that counter since your second day here. But what I am going to do is get you revved up before I let you leave, so you have something to think about this morning and during the day.”

The Cook looked at him. “I think I have a bit of knife practice tonight, so I doubt I’ll be alone. And when did you decide to stop being shy?”

“About the time I ended up fucking you while you were blowing the Pyro.” The Soldier smiled grimly. “I don’t care if you have knife practice.” He juggled her in his arms, readjusting. “I just want to know that you’ve thought about me during the day.”

The Soldier stepped back to the bed and sat down on it, then turned her around, wrapping his arms around her waist and pinning her arms. “The next time, Rosie girl,” he growled against her earlobe, “I’m going to bend you over and fuck you in the ass until you scream.”

He took a quiet breath, the air feathering over her ears. “I’m going to make you cry, Rosie-girl, and while you’re crying, I’m going to keep going because I know you like it. Because I know you’ll squirm and you’ll cry and you’ll love every single second of it.”

She made a quiet, whimpering noise and squirmed on his lap, reaching to touch herself. He laughed and captured her hands. “No, Rosie, none of that today. Feel free to get annoyed, though, and take it out on those two fuckers during knife practice. They’re pretty annoyed, too, and Snipes says you fight better when annoyed.”

The Cook whined, and he tightened his grip painfully. “Think about me today, Rosie. Think about me and think about the next time we can spend time together.” The Soldier released her hands. “You can go make breakfast now.”

She stood up slowly, half angry and all embarrassed. “I don’t know how I feel about that, Solly.”

He looked at her impassively. “You telling me I misjudged you, Rosie?”

“I…” She took a breath. “No, you didn’t, Solly.” She smiled once, wryly. “Christ, got it in one. It’s just… it’s hard to be so easy to get.”

He kept staring at her with the same, quiet intensity. “I want you to think about me, Rosie-girl. I know you have other people to visit, and I know you’re too classy to brag or carry tales, but I want to take up a place in your head.” The Soldier stood and reached down for his pants. “After last night, Rosie, I want to know you’ll think about me.”

The Cook opened a drawer, hunching her shoulders, and said nothing.

“Makes you uncomfortable, don’t it, Rosie? Feel a little invaded?”

“I don’t like to talk about my feelings, Solly. Last night was… it was real close.”

“And fucking ain’t always that way for you. But I don’t want it to be impersonal for you, Rosie. Not after you’ve got to see me like that. I want you to feel, and I know you can fuck without it, but I want you to fuck me with all of you.”

She looked over at him, panic on her face.

“Yeah, that panics you, doesn’t it, Rosie? More fear of leaving and being left.” He pulled his shirt over his head. “Being nice to you ain’t gonna keep you by itself, will it?”

“Jesus,” she spat. “Did all you fuckers spend the last fifty years studying psychology?”

He stepped into his boots. “Something like that Rosie. Just a real specific kind of psychology.” He saluted her briefly. “The Army’ll make thinker of most men, especially when they start asking for volunteers. I ain’t all that smart, Rosie-girl, but I ain’t dumb either. And we’re too alike for me not to know what’s going on under all that red hair.”

He smiled at her. “So I’ll see you soon, I think. Because you’ll remember me and you won’t get too comfortable.”

“Fuck you, Solly.”

“Later, Rosie.” He looked down her slowly. “Still wet?”

She threw a shoe at him and he ducked, then left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Fever Ray, "If I Had a Heart"


	26. Chapter 26

The Cook refused to leave the kitchen during dinner, putting off invitations to the table by saying that she wanted to get the kitchen clean before knife practice. Through the door, she could see the Soldier watching her with an intent expression, measuring her to see what had clung to her. His eyes flickered across her, back and forth, up and down, searching and probing, the weight of it pushing at her like hands. Someone broke her gaze and she looked up to see the Spy leaning against the door frame. Despite his seeming relaxation, she could see the tension in his shoulders, in the constant small movements of his exposed forearms, crossed and shifting as his fingers drummed them.

"You cannot hide in there forever, _Vipere_.”

She let her eyes flick up and down him, a sneer of frustration and simple exhaustion on her face. “I’m not hiding.”

He pulled one of his hands loose and waved it in a circle, his arm tight with anger, and waited.

The Cook sighed, closing her eyes—even as angry as she was, the sight of him still tugged at her, as if some essential part of her had remained with him after that night, confused and longing for something inarticulate and kind. “All right,” she said softly, opening them again. “I’m hiding.”

“ _Oui_ ,” he said, a growl curling the edges of the word. “You are. But it is time to practice, _Vipere_.” The Spy reached into a pocket and pulled out a balisong, folded into a small steel rectangle. He tossed it at her and she caught it. “Here is one of my spares.” The Spy jerked a thumb behind him. “Now.”

She was grateful to the surge of annoyance, washing back the urge to close the distance between them, to beg with her whole body that he go back to whatever he had done that had made her feel safe. “Jesus fuck, Sneak,” she said, leaning back against the counter. “Do you have to order me around?”

His jaw came out slightly and he ground his teeth. “Would you like me to drag you, Vipere? Say the word,” he hissed, “and I will march you there.”

“You just gave me a knife.” She was smiling coldly—she could feel her lips curve up, the expression on them echoing his in a way that, had she been able to see them both in a mirror, would have terrified her.

“ _Vipere_ ,” he said, the growl now open in his voice and making his tone shiver, “do not think for a moment that I could not take it from you. I will not be… distracted, like our wild friend, for a fuck.” His eyelids lowered, looking from her feet up to her head with that same, horribly knowledgeable accounting that had so intimidated her the first day. “Come, you lazy cow, and quit acting like a child.”

 _At least_ , she thought, with a surge of gratitude for his prickly anger, _if I am angry I am not asking how and why he could do what he’s done._ She unlatched the knife and carefully flipped it up, then locked it open. “Cow?” The Cook snorted, letting her tone heat. “All right, let’s play.”

The Spy stepped back and to the side with a mockingly elaborate wave of his arm, eyes on her as he bowed once from the waist. “You first, _Vipere_.”

Holding the knife loosely, she edged around him and through the dining room. The mercenaries’ eyes followed her and the short blade as she left the room without looking back. After a moment, the Spy followed.

“That’s liable to be interesting,” the Engineer said. “I think I’ll go watch.” _For whatever else you are, you sneaky fucker_ , he thought, _you can at least rouse the girl to defend herself. Although why you all can’t let the girl smile more often beats me. It ain’t like you have to be mean all the time to get her attention._

The Scout rolled his eyes. “Nah, not me. There’s a game on tonight.”

The Medic sighed. “I shall expect to see one or both later. This will, of course, end in someone running to the surgery.” He patted the Heavy’s hand. “Well, at least we will not have to go to them.”

“Will be in the surgery waiting, then?” The Heavy looked at the Medic with a rueful expression. “Would be nice to get whole night together without running across base.”

“I’m sorry, Mischa.”

“Is part of job, I understand.” The Heavy squeezed the Medic’s hand on the table. The Medic smiled, gratefully before he spoke. “I am not leaving the table until I am done eating. Anything before that can wait.”

The Sniper sighed heavily and made a sandwich of a roll and a slice of ham before leaving the room, having promised not to interfere. The Pyro kept eating, arm curled around his plate, his worry apparent as much in his silence as in the arm curled around his plate, huddling about the food as if worried it would stop again. The Demo simply poured more scrumpy into his tea and downed it in a single gulp before leaving the room.

The Soldier sighed, appetite entirely gone, and decided to take several laps of the base, sweating out what he knew he could not say until he was too tired to interfere.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

The Cook let herself into the gym and put the knife down on a bench to stretch, pulling an elbow over her head and gently pulling it to the side, pulling the stiffness from the muscles under her arm. She didn’t turn when she heard the door open, resolved not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch— _foreboding_ , she thought, _suits the situation, but I’m not about to give it to him_. A few seconds later, she felt the point of a knife against her back, pressed hard enough to part her shirt and leave a small, sharp divot on the skin above her kidneys. They twinged, remembering the BLU Spy’s knife.

“Tell me, _Vipere_ ,” he said, disgust harsh in his voice, “were you daring me to stab you or did you just forget I was coming?”

She kept her arm curled above her head and turned it to see the figure behind her with a single eye. “Neither. Were you planning on stabbing me in the kidney before we started practicing? Seems like a waste of time to practice if you kill someone before it starts.”

He grabbed and yanked her braid with his spare hand, pulling her head back so that he could look down into her eyes. “What game are you playing, _Vipere_ , that you think taunting me will end well?” A fleck of his spit hit her face. “Lazy and spoiled. And I am supposed to teach you anything about the knife.” The Spy released her hair and she straightened as the door opened, admitting the Engineer, who pulled his over-shirt off and sat down at a machine.

“Don’t mind me,” the Engineer said. “Didn’t get much exercise today and I’ve been eating a lot more recently.” He patted his stomach. “Go on. Do your thing.” He grabbed the handles. “I’ll just do mine.”

The Spy took several steps back and unbuttoned his coat, laying it across a machine, followed by his vest. Folding his sleeves up, he took his balisong out with a practiced flip of a gloved hand. “Silly little girl playing at war—tell me, _Vipere_ , did you think I would take this seriously?”

She tucked her braid into the back of her shirt and picked up the knife. “Did I hurt your feelings, Sneak? Did I touch a nerve somewhere?” The Cook turned to the Spy and rotated her wrist, the knife spinning light around the room. “Did I not admire you enough, Peacock? Did you need me to fall to my knees and adore you, or can we practice fucking each other up?”

He half-smiled then, and she could see a moment of pride buried under the acid of his anger. “I could see it under your skin, _Vipere_. Poisonous thing,” he hissed. The Spy took a shuffling step forward and she jumped backward. “Stop dancing, you precious little bitch.” He crossed his wrists briefly, mimicking a tie and sending a brief frisson through her.

The Spy smiled as he saw her react, nipples hardening and a single shiver making her spine dance. “Should we tie our hands together so you can’t get away?” He stepped forward again and she retreated. “Running away again, _Vipere_? Isn’t that what you do? Fuck and run.”

She wanted to laugh, then, a goading and malicious sound that she wasn’t sure she could end. The Cook took a single step forward and he dodged, then grabbed her knife hand and she threw herself backward to avoid the stab to her torso. The Spy drew the blade back from the stab slowly, teasingly down the inside of the arm he held while she struggled for balance, splitting her shirt and leaving a long slice down the inside of her arm, burning.

The Spy released her hand and let her step back. “Our _Bête_ forgot himself last time,” he snarled. “He got distracted by pussy.”

The Cook pressed her bleeding forearm against her shirt. “And you won’t,” she said, eyes glittering with rage, “will you, Peacock?”

“A pet name, how wonderful. We’re at a stage of growth in our relationship, I see.” He grabbed his vest from a bench with his free hand. _The snarl, dear Vipere, is perfect_ — _this_ , he thought, _is the face that will let you survive_.

The Cook’s eyes dropped to the vest, confusion momentarily breaking her rage. “What’re you going to do with that, Peacock?”

He smiled again, sardonically, and held it loosely in his free hand, letting the fabric spill between his fingers and hang as he moved. _She vacillates_ , he thought, _more quickly between moods. Vipere, you are learning control. What an agent I could have made of you. Even unwitting, you learn quickly._

“You’re going to want to watch that he don’t catch the vest on your knife,” the Engineer called out. “He’s going to tangle you if he can.”

The Spy did not turn, but growled in annoyance. “She is learning a lesson that has nothing to do with you.” He smiled, nastily, making eye contact to see if she flinched. “But, _Vipere_ , he is right. Don’t dare blink or I will foul your blade.”

Her eyes focused on the vest, as he thought they might, and when he threw that arm out, she dodged away from it.

The Spy cut across her exposed forearm, leaving a shallow slice on her knife hand. “You blinked,” he said dryly, and threw the vest to the side.

Hot drops of blood spattered on the floor under her arms and she gritted her teeth, the pain fueling rage again and the refusal to leave before she damaged him as he had damaged her. “Is that all you have,” she growled. _I can take anything, anything you dish out, you poisonous French rapist_ , she thought.

The Spy laughed and opened his arms briefly. “ _Vipere_ , I am a man of many surprises.” He vanished.

The Engineer swore. “I’m going to get my hands on that fucking thing at some point.”

The Cook heard a faint whisper behind her and instinctively threw herself forward, lashing out behind her with a foot. Her foot hit something solid and she heard the chuff of air leaving his lungs. He wheezed twice before it became silent again. She scrambled to her feet and turned, listening for any sound, looking in the dim lights of the gym for any telltale sign of his presence. A long slice opened up on her back, and she threw herself forward again, tumbling over a bench and scrambling up again with a limp. Her arms burned, her back burned, but she kept turning, trying to find him.

With a shimmer, he appeared on the other side of the bench.

“It is best,” he said, “to surprise. For that, you must be silent and hidden.” He smirked at her. “But perhaps, in your case, distraction is best.” He tapped the fingers of his free hand against his leg. “Tell me, _Vipere_ , how will you get close when you cannot see me?”

She stared at him, hating him, rage simmering underneath her skin until she was sure she might actually glow, the flames behind her eyes consuming her. “I could always throw piss at you,” she spat— _and ruin your clothes_ , she thought, _and show you what you’re worth, pissed out here at the end of the world_.

The Spy’s eyebrows shot up. “Piss? You have been spending too much time with our _Bête_.”

“Dirt then,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Dust. Something.”

He nodded his head, the beginning of a smile flashing and dying quickly on his face. _Smart Vipere_ , he thought. _I am increasingly sorry I did not acquire you while I was still working as an agent for the pleasure of breaking you in myself._ “Good. It will show a hidden thing. If you are lucky, it may get in their eyes.”

She watched his body as he stepped back, the waiting tension that sang, electric in his limbs.

“Well, _Vipere_ ,” he said, tone heating, “come back to the open space and let us see what else you can learn.”

The Engineer cleared his throat. “Surely you don’t mean to keep cutting her like that.”

“If I do,” said the Spy, watching the woman slide back out into the rough circle with a cautious sidle, “it will be none of your business. What is the worst that can happen, Engie? She dies?” He chuckled, a low rippling growl. “She’s gone through respawn before.”

The Cook concentrated on his feet, watching him pace, nearly dancing with a grace that spoke of long rehearsal. Then she smiled, a nasty little grin, and lunged, stabbing at full extension. The Spy jumped back and lashed out, but kept going backward over the bench behind him. She followed, hopping across the bench as he twisted to catch himself, and ending up draped across his back, the knife tickling the skin over his kidneys.

“Peek-a-boo, motherfucker,” she growled, joyful and feral.

The Engineer dropped the bar he had been lifting with an echoing clang and started laughing, face red with exertion and surprise. “Oh very nice, little girl.”

The Spy twisted, throwing her off his back, and started to stand, then let himself rest on the floor and started to laugh. _Oh Vipere_ , he thought, pride and rue warring for supremacy, _the things I could have done with you_.

“Fuck you, Sneak,” she panted, sprawled near the machine, still bleeding and not surrendering the knife.

“Ah,” he said, gasping, laughter shivering in his tone, “it was like comedy, no?” He blew a raspberry at her, smoothing his hair. “Right over the bench.”

She lowered her knife, confused, and he laid a single shallow cut across one of her hands. “And that,” he said gleefully, “is for not paying attention. And for not stabbing me when you had the chance.”

The Cook smeared a hand down her arm and threw droplets of blood at him, spattering the floor and droplets soaking into his pants. “I’ll learn,” she said, and he could hear her satisfaction at staining him. “What the fuck is eating you, Sneak?”

“I should make you eat me,” he said, the liquid intonation of his home language blurring the vowels.

“I thought,” she said, staring at him intently, “you weren’t about to be distracted by pussy.”

The Spy shrugged, face studied in its nonchalant disinterest and designed to insult. “Are we not done? Did you want to keep failing to cut me?”

She swore, bringing her knees up to rest her bleeding arms on them, the blade still clutched in her hand.

“I have been told,” he said teasingly, her frustration sending hot little fingers through him, “that you like a little violence before you fuck.”

At that, the Cook’s head snapped back. “It’s going to be a cold day in hell, Sneak,” she said. “I still have the knife.”

 _We’ll see_ , he thought. _But I think, Vipere, you will find that’s exactly what you want._ He smiled at her, the fine lines near his mouth folding gently. “Do you remember what I said when I gave it to you?”

“Gonna come get it,” she asked, and tightened her grip, tensing again. “You can try.”

The Spy stood up, dusting his slacks off, and disappeared again. The Cook scooted backward, putting a machine behind her, and waited. Seconds dripped by, slowly, and she hunched into herself, gripping the knife. The only sound in the room was the quiet grunt the Engineer made as he curled the bar. She waited, but nothing happened. The Engineer put the bar down and wiped his face with a towel.

“Well,” the Engineer said, “that went better than I thought it would, considering how irritable he’s been. You gonna go get healed up?”

She looked at the slices: shallow but stinging, more embarrassing than serious. “No, I’ll clean them myself. But I should make those assholes buy me more shirts. I’ve been losing them practically every time I get near Sneak, Snipes, and Solly.”

The Engineer made a face, walking toward her. “I doubt you’ll get shirts out of any of them. You might want to order a pack of cheap white t shirts or tank tops.” He looked at the shredded sleeves of her thermal, running a long slice of fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “That adds up fast, don’t it?”

“Yeah, it really does.” She sighed. “Time to clean myself up.” She folded the knife and put it in her back pocket. “I’m keeping this unless that bastard steals it from me.”

“I’m going to finish my sets.” The Engineer turned back to the machine, muscle picking broad hills out of his shoulders. “If you want company, you know where my room is.” His voice softened. “But little girl, I’m proud of you.”

She laughed then, a mixture of despair and surprise—she’d classified him as one of the nicer men around her, but he, too had his agenda. _I suppose_ , she thought, _I should thank the Medic despite his malice for being honest_. “Maybe,” she said. “‘Night, Engie.”

“’Night, little girl.”

She walked to her room, passing what sounded like a rather intense game of poker in the living room, and closed the door, locking it after checking her room and bathroom. The Cook looked at her sleeves, made a face and gingerly pulled the shirt off, rolling it around the slices.  “Fuck, that’s another one.” She wadded it up and threw it into a corner. “Fantastic.”

The Cook sat down on her bed to unlace her shoes and threw them into a different corner. After a quiet moment, she pulled her jeans off and threw them into a third corner. “Nothing,” she muttered. “I know that asshole is somewhere around here.”

She padded to the shower in her underwear, shoulders high with tension, and bent over to turn it on.

“I see you’ve lost your knife, _Vipere_.”

The Cook spun, catching the Spy as he reappeared, picking his nails with his knife and leaning against her bathroom sink. “Oh goddamn it,” she said, voice more deadened than surprised— _you never can leave it alone, can you_ , she thought. “Where were you?”

“ _Moi_?” He smiled, predatory anticipation baring his canines. “Nowhere, _Vipere_. I was nowhere.”

“I suppose,” she said quietly, longing coming back as her anger faded, “that you want to fuck now.”

“Why _Vipere_ ,” he said, mock surprise flattening in his voice, “whatever put such an idea in your head?” He flipped the knife around, closing it and tucking it into his slacks. “No, you reek. Bathe first.”

She threw her arms up, exasperated. “And if I refuse.”

He pointedly stared at the slices on her arms.

“Aren’t you going to call your friend?”

“No, _Vipere_ , he owes me this after the last practice. And there are a few things,” he said, voice cutting, “that I need to say and our dear _Bête_ is a bit too emotional to hear.”

“Fantastic. Any more emotional abuse left in there, or should I just assume you’re out of shitty things.”

“I am never,” he said, “out of ways to hurt. You are offending my nose, _enfant gâté_.”

“Brat?” She shook her head. “You are the vainest, nastiest man I’ve ever met.” The Cook turned her back to him again, spinning the taps, and stepped out of her underwear.

“Do hurry, _enfant gâté_ ,” he said, “or I will come in there with you and it will not be to tickle.”

“How the hell did you—” She trailed off. “Never mind. I don’t want to know and I don’t care.” She stepped into the shower and hissed involuntarily as the water hit the slices along her forearms, hand and back.

The Spy smiled on the other side of the plastic curtain and put both hands on the counter next to him, curling his fingers around its lip. “Faster, _Vipere_. Be done soon.” _Be done soon_ , he added silently, _or when I come in there, I will do to you what you wish me to whether you like it or not, and I will make it hurt._

“Or what,” she grumbled. “Gonna come in here and fuck me clean?”

“ _Non_ ,” he said— _fuck you clean? No,_ he responded silently, _I will fuck you dirty down to the undiscovered and vicious depths of your soul_. “But I will be most inventive when you get out in ways you may not like.”

She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair one last time, checking for soap and snarls. “Fine, I’m getting out. But I am not turned on.”

He looked at her with an infuriating smile. “Is that so, _Vipere_? Shall I check?”

“I have no idea why I put that knife down, but I’m starting to wonder if I should just keep one on me all the time.” She squinted up at him, squeezing the ends of her hair into a towel. “I can’t help but think you need to be stabbed a few times.”

“That is quite funny,” he said, smile crinkling the fan of skin near his eyes. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

She flipped her wet hair behind her and stared at him. “Ha, ha. Sex pun. How do you think you’re going to get me in bed, you obnoxious asshole?”

“Won’t you please come to bed, _mademoiselle_?” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Oh pretty please, as you Americans insist on saying.” The Spy reached out quickly, snagging her hair. “Oh do come and spend some time with me. I would so appreciate your company.” His fist wound in it and he pulled. “Oh please come spend some time with me.”

She dropped the towel and grabbed his wrist with both hands, digging in her heels. “And if I say no?”

The Spy looked at her with that same, infuriating smile. “And will you?”

She kicked him in the shin and drew her foot back to nail him in the knee. He moved his knee out of the way and pulled her from the bathroom by the hair. “And will you, _Vipere_? Will you say no, little fool?” He held a hand to his ear, theatrically listening. “Oh, do say yes.”

“Let go of my fucking hair, you son of a bitch.”

“You had only to ask.” He released her hair and peeled his dampened gloves off, slowly tucking them into a back pocket. “But I want to hear you say it, _Vipere_.”

“What is the goddamn point of telling you no? All you have to do is reappear in my bedroom with that knife.”

He looked her up and down, watching the towel slip. “That is not the game we’re playing, _Vipere_. The game we’re playing makes you just as guilty as I. So you have to ask.”

She grabbed at the towel and missed, then let it fall, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her modesty or of knowing that she could recognize the ravenous, unreasoning hunger on his face. “Guilt—you worthless asshole, what would you know of guilt? What would you know of pain or responsibility or even fucking regret?”

The Spy’s smile was flirty, terrible in its incongruity. “I see you have a little talent at this game. But, _Vipere_ , you still haven’t answered me.”

“You are just a world-burning-down fuck, aren’t you,” she snarled. “Everything spoiled and gone to shit.”

“Do go on, _Vipere_ ,” he breathed. “Shall I assume that if I touched you, I would find you had melted? Would you like me to touch you?” He made a slow, hooking gesture with one hand, fingers curled in a classic come hither motion, the flirty smile deepening into something predatory and full of the knowledge that the human mind is fragile.

She put her head in her hands, shivering, and he tapped a leather clad toe on the floor, an unsubtle reminder of time passing and his question. “Shall I make it easier for you, _Vipere_?” On instinct, probing from memory and what he knew of small towns in the conservative state of her birth, he added. “Shall I play, perhaps, a distant father? Or maybe a priest, stern of conviction and angry of face?”

She colored and backed away, looking at him in brief, catastrophic horror. He could feel himself growing hot at that, a heavy warmth between his legs that needled his composure— _Vipere, amour, the weapon you just handed me_ , he thought, lips parting with a harsh breath.

“Do run away, _Vipere_ ,” he said, unable to keep the anticipation out of his voice. “I would find nothing between your legs right now, no trace of moisture, no desire at all.” He took a single step toward her. “Of this, I am sure. As sure as I am of that poison in you, the poison that is right now stealing through you like a drug.”

She looked up, horrified, watching his eyelids low over his eyes, the careless curls of his hair tumbling on his forehead.

“So say no, _Vipere_ ,” he hissed. “Tell me to go. Tell me desire does not run its poisonous fingers through you right now because I will tell you horrible things, the things you know to be true about yourself and will never admit. Tell me you do not hate it, the honey warmth that is making you weak in the knees.”

She took a single step back and fell backward on to her bed, fingers pressed to her mouth, and his breath caught for a moment in his throat at the transparency in it.

“Tell me,” he breathed, “that you do not crave what you hate. Tell me, _Vipere_ , that you do not have a part of your mind that wants to inflict pain, a part of yourself that you try to hide from.”

She whimpered then— _Vipere_ , he thought, hunger and satisfaction roaring through him, _you are the raw stuff of which I have made the most exquisite killers_. He took another step. “Tell me you do not crave what I’m offering because of that part of yourself, the sick adoration of the desire you hate.”

“Fuck you,” she said, voice shaking, and crawled backward until her back hit the wall. “Fuck you, you sadistic son of a bitch.”

“Tell me no,” he whispered, stepping closer to the bed. “Tell me no before I cross this last step.” He let the silence stretch, watching her pant and stare at him. Her knees shook, the poisonous desire he had described burning up her nerves, making her knees hard to press together.

“Shall I go, _Vipere_? One last time will I ask.” He crossed his hands before himself, teasingly, reminding her of restraints and being restrained, of the knife and the overwhelming desire to hurt. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I….” She hugged herself, breath short and harsh.

“Be honest, _Vipere_. Be honest with yourself and what you want.”

She looked up at him then, eyes open windows into her soul and the riot of desires in it. _Bête_ , he thought, _for all your impatience and the crudity of your methods, you are contagious as any experienced agent. The girl is ours, body and soul._ He paused for a moment, weighing. _Helen_ , he thought, _if this was your intention, you laid your bait well._

The Spy crossed the last step, brushing the bed with his knees, each slow advance into the space between them making the air crackle and buzz against her skin and his. “We have had decades to perfect our cruelty on each other, decades to hone ourselves.”

He put a knee on the bed. “Decades to understand every poison the mind offers, every death the body can give, _petite_ or _non_.”

The Spy put a second knee on the bed. “Decades to learn how to hurt each other in every way possible. Decades of lying to women and men in town, bending them over and,” he paused, watching the words sink into her, “making them shriek.”

He crawled forward a single step. “Decades of study in our boredom and pain, of listening to our own stories.”

The Spy came forward the last foot, stopping when his lips were inches from hers and breath tickling them. “If I believed in hell, _Vipere_ , I might argue that we were there. You have the look,” he said quietly, “of someone who knows how banal hell can be.”

She took a single breath, eyes pleading for reprieve, for some evidence that the sickening mixture of desire and willing filth in her was merely a game they were playing, that he would stop and she would once again be simply a Cook. “You could have had decades to learn to help each other.”

He placed a gentle kiss on one of her cheekbones, drifting toward her ear. “How fair would it be if you stayed thinking we were kind,” he murmured. “How fair would it be if I let you think that we loved anything at all?” There was a twinge, then, in his chest, the pain making the hunger sweeter.

“I don’t believe you,” she said in his ear—the pride in them all, the words of the Engineer and the heat in the Sniper’s gaze, the Soldier’s prickly search of her face. “I’ve seen you all care.”

“Have you,” he whispered, eyebrows rising. He drew back to look at her face. “How would you know?”

“Smoke and mirrors,” she said quietly, watching his face as he watched hers, “only distort what’s there. They don’t make it disappear.”

“You think you can do make us care?” He smiled incredulously. “I thought more of you than the desire to reform our withered black hearts. How very feminine. How very, very weak of you.”

“I don’t think I pierce you so deeply, slippery as you are. But our wild friend…” She trailed off watching the dart sink in, his pupils dilating.

“The best seductions,” he murmured, shocked at her observation, “are dangerous for everyone.”

“Cut me,” she said, malicious and gleeful, “and I’ll cut back. One way or another.”

He answered her by kissing her, a kiss that started smooth and practiced. She refused to play along, forcing her tongue into his mouth—crude and choking—until he drew back.

“Fuck you,” she said, chin wet. “Fuck you, you don’t get to run everything.”

He cocked a single eyebrow.

“No, Sneak, fuck me and I’ll fuck you back.” She wiped her chin with the back of a hand, glaring at him. “You want to play these games with me, fine. Let’s play, but don’t expect me to lay there trembling because you cut me a bit.”

“Perhaps we should have you tattoo _wormwood_ on the inside of your wrist as a warning to our more delicate friends, fools that they are.” He smiled, feral. “Which one is the true you, _Vipere_ , the you who cries on the Demo’s shoulder? The you we can turn so easily into a toy?” He cocked his head. “Or maybe this you?”

She looked at him, cold rage buffering the poisonous lust until it faded back— _if I am_ , she raged silently, _it is because you have made me so_. “You’ll come to your own conclusions.”

He smiled once, tersely, angry at her refusal to admit his point, to admit that she showed different faces to different men— _if you will be honest with anyone, Vipere_ , he cautioned her silently, _you will be honest with me. If you force me to go looking, amour, I will slice you open from chin to toes to find it._ After a moment, he murmured, “Desire can be a weapon, _Vipere_. Let me teach you a little about it.”

The Spy reached out for her and she flinched, unable to retreat for the frigid wall behind her back. He dug his fingers into the still jangling nerves on the inside of her knees, sending a jolt of pain to her hips and making her legs sag open. “There is a nerve,” he said, watching her face tighten, "here, that sends fire down your legs if you don’t relax them.”

He smoothed his hands down her tingling legs, leaving a honeyed warmth in their wake that sharpened the lingering, angry sting by contrast. “There are corresponding nerves in your arms, neck, and hands. You can make a lover submit whether they will or not, make them open their legs or drown their senses, if they respond to pain.”

She let herself relax and looked at him through her eyelashes, waiting for him to need to sink himself into her, waiting to see if he would get caught up and forget himself. The Spy could see it, could see her waiting for him to release, waiting for him to lose himself. She made a moue at him, lips wet and slick, offering wordlessly and mockingly to see what he would take.

“I will not get distracted that easily,” he murmured, rolling himself up on his knees. His open hands glided up her torso slowly, touch feathering away from groin and nipples, then coming back down her sides. She twisted, trying to force him to touch her nipples without using her hands, to force him to acknowledge that he, too, could feel the heat between them. His face was distant with a music she could not hear, that made him sway gently as his hands moved as if dancing.

“Desire is a weapon, foolish girl,” he whispered, “that cuts into the hardest heart, the most armored of souls.”

His touch gradually grew heavier, tracing long lines down her sides, near misses with her breasts, teasing, circling, and coming within millimeters of touching her where she had begun to ache. She gritted her teeth against the hunger in her skin, the slow weight of desire pressing her down and running through her body in a thick, sweet tide.

“Don’t let anyone tell you,” he murmured, “that love cuts as deep. A man will kill for love, maybe die for it. But for desire, he will sell himself every day into a slavery that love cannot make soft.” For a moment, his memory fed him again the sight of her hair falling and pooling on the Sniper’s shoulder, chin tilted up moving like the ripples in a pool, utterly abandoned to sensation and vulnerable. He bit his lip, feeling again the weight of knowingly shaping another person, of taking from them the most personal silences in their minds— _did I not say, Vipere_ , he thought guilt and lust reeling in the blood that pooled, hot, in his cock, _that the best seductions cut both ways? To the bone, Petite, reaving and burning as it goes._

The Spy backed up and pulled her down, to lay looking up at him. The same stroking fingers released her hips and trailed down them, in swirls and dips finding the places she made her bite the inside of her cheek to avoid shivering. And still he avoided nipples, lips, and any place that would give her relief. She clenched her fists and put them underneath her body.

He chuckled at that, a short, rich sound, watching her back bow up above her fists. “Bind yourself if you like, _Vipere_. Hide your hands underneath you. What might they do if you did not?”

The Spy’s face grew preoccupied again and he leaned forward, balancing on his fists. His lips hovered just above her skin and breathed out gently, his breath doing what his fingers had, seconds earlier, the wet warmth and anticipation raising goose flesh behind it.

“What will happen,” he said, lips brushing the fine hairs on her arm, “when I lick you? Will you jump?”

She closed her eyes and deliberately bit her own tongue as his darted out, tracing wet lines that trailed close to and veered from her nipples. Her skin burned, desire and hunger and the need to see him lose, to die victorious and screaming on the body above her. When he finally sucked her nipple into his mouth, she went rigid, gasping.

“Point one,” he said, pulling away from her nipple in wet strings, “to me.”

She looked at him, arms twitching with the desire to punch him, to strike out and punish.

“But if you do that,” he said, running a finger tip down her bicep, “I win as well—because I made you hit me rather than admit that you want something. More running away.”

The Spy reached between her legs, fitting his thumb into the hollow left by the tendons in her inner thighs, and started to massage the muscle, sending warm little shocks up her spine. She could feel heat building in the muscles as they relaxed under his fingers, a weakness that made it impossible to pick up her legs, drugged and heavy.

“There is,” he said quietly, “a cluster of nerves there, too.” When he followed the hollow away, down the inside of her thigh, she made a low noise in the back of her throat, then held her breath in frustration at the noise.

“Point two,” he said, pupils wide and drowning dark.

The Spy stroked his thumbs down the seam of muscle on the outside of her lips, pressure parting them slickly as his thumbs came down, making them rub against themselves. The muscle in her jaw rippled as he ran a finger down that seam, picking up moisture. “You don’t like this? We both know the body can be made to do many things—but a mind,” he murmured. “A mind requires skill.”

He took a breath and spoke, thick and deep. “Tell me, Vipere, do you dream of it? Do you dream of your body suspended between the Sniper and I, of the words home and hunger?”

She flinched at that, a sob in her breath before she could stop herself. “I won’t,” she said, her voice shaking with tension, “argue that you can’t make my body react.”

He smiled, pinching one of her lips and pulling the skin, sliding his nail along the inside of it for the fine line of pain that made her gasp. “No, _Vipere_ , I can direct many things from here.”

“But you can’t make me like it.” She flushed after she said it, knowing herself to be telling a kind of lie and unwilling to tell him the truth—what she liked had always been there, the mad and manic urges that made her nomadic, that filled her with strange and violent urges. He had merely conjured it from her and held up a dark mirror, making her look at it in all its carnivorous glory.

A sardonic smile flashed across his face. “I don’t have to make you do a thing, silly girl. Your hands are not restrained. You could have told me to leave. And you are free to tell us all to leave.” He took a single breath, fingers still stroking the outside of the seam between her legs, slick and teasing. “But you won’t and you don’t, because desire is a more effective leash than love.”

The Spy leaned forward, breath caressing her face. “And you do not, no matter what face you show these men, care.”

“I can care,” she said, cut to the quick and bleeding. “I do care about them.”

“Which of your faces, _Vipere_ , is real? Who are you really?” With a gentle push, he slid a slick finger into her and she came up off the bed, her lips framing a soundless moan. “Do you love, little _Vipere_? Can you love?”

His finger traced a come-hither inside her, sending sparks behind her eyes. “What part of you is still soft? What part of you still longs to be held?”

“You won’t find it this way,” she panted, fighting the urge to stay suspended, back curved off the bed and eyes rolled up in her head, turned inside out by his fingers and his words.

“Oh, but I’ve already found out some of what I wanted to know,” he said, fingers flexing in a slow rhythm. “Tell me, little fool, whose bed would you seek if I left you wanting?”

“What if I,” she shivered, biting the inside of her cheek, “stayed in my own and told you all to go to hell?”

He reached up with a thumb, rubbing her clit as his fingers flexed. The cords in her stomach jumped and the long muscles of her thighs picked themselves out of her legs, tense. The Spy laughed as she started to tense around his fingers. He waited until her breath took on the characteristic rhythm, then pulled his fingers from her.

“Would you,” he said, mocking, his breath as short as hers. “If I left right now, would you stay in your own bed? Tell me, _Vipere_ , did you bring anything to help yourself?”

“I did,” she said, “but the damn thing disappeared at some point.”

The Spy merely smiled. Her eyes narrowed and she pulled her hands out from under herself. “You didn’t. Did you?” She reached for his shirt and he leaned back. “Did you, you son of a bitch?”

He slid his fingers back into her and resumed the same, maddening curl, rubbing with his thumb.

“Whose bed would you go to? Our friendly Engineer? The Soldier, and his barely contained violence? The Pyro, who wants to please you? Our vanilla Demo? The _Bête_? Surely you would not intrude on the good Doctor and his lover? I know you do not care for the _lapin_.”

“You left,” she panted, “your own bed out.”

He snorted, once. “So you would seek this out again. I suppose I should not be surprised that you would seek an outlet for your poison. Tell me, _Vipere_ , when you cry in their arms, do you mean the tears?”

She glared at him, sitting up against his clever fingers. “You don’t deserve to know.”

The Spy smiled and pulled his fingers from her, then stuck them in his mouth, staring at her as he cleaned his fingers. When they were clean, he pulled them out slowly, letting them graze his lips and watching the involuntary contraction of her pupils. He unbuttoned his shirt, leaning on his elbow, and pulled it from his pants, watching the tell-tale flush across her breasts deepen. The Spy stood up, off the bed, and slowly unbuttoned his pants, watching the same flush spread down. Kicking off his socks and shoes, he crawled onto the bed and sat back on his knees.

“Desire is best as a weapon, Vipere, when only one person is drowning. When only one person is burning, waiting for release.”

She looked him up and down, then pointedly stared at his erection. “You aren’t at your best.”

“I never said, _Vipere_ , that I did not enjoy a little … interrogation.” He dug his thumbs into the nerves on the inside of her knees and forced them up, the nerves shrieking, to her nose. He released her knees and she folded her calves down.

“Now what, Sneak?” She laughed, a low, hoarse sound. “Going to fuck the information out of me?”

His thumbs went back to the hollow made by the tendons on the inside of her thighs, seeking and pressing on the nerve cluster that made a honeyed warmth trickle up her spine. He let her relax into it before slowly increasing the pleasure, letting that pleasure start to become burning pain, shading into a panicking numbness. Her legs twitched and he leaned into them, forcing them back with his shoulders.

“No, _Vipere_ , you will keep them there so I can have access to you.”

He let one of the nerves go to glide himself into her, then put that thumb back on the nerves in her thighs. She tensed, hissing, as he slid in. He released the pressure enough to allow it to go back to warmth and moved gently, watching her eyelids slide closed, fluttering.

“Can’t,” she whispered, “make me talk.”

“Not yet,” he whispered back. “But you will.” He splayed his fingers across the back of her thighs for leverage, and slowly increased the pressure on those nerves, watching her tense and her mouth open into a soundless cry as the sensation verged back into pain, moving with an unhurried rhythm made shallow by his hands between them. Her knees twitched against him and her eyes squeezed with pain. When the first wetness appeared at the edges of her eyelashes, he released the pressure, still moving with the same, unhurried rhythm.

She was wet around him, flexing, and he smiled. “Doing that on purpose, _Vipere_? Very nice, but you cannot make me do anything I do not wish to do.”

Her eyes rolled open and she licked her dry lips. “Must be hard to wall yourself away from pleasure that way, to make it into a game that does not affect you.” She took a breath. “But it does, doesn’t it?”

The Spy froze, then dug his thumbs savagely into those nerves, twisting, sending a wave of itching, burning, awful pain up her spine that made her try to clap her knees together against his chest.

“Go ahead,” she gasped. “Lose your temper.”

After one last, vicious twist, he took a deep breath and smoothed his face with an effort. “A point to you.” He parted her knees and forced them to the bed on either side of her head, using a nerve cluster in the back of her knees. The Spy let his hands glide up to her ankles, to dig his thumbs into the nerve-cluster near her ankle, sending a wave of pain up her legs.

“Behave, _Vipere_. And answer my question: what face is yours? Which face is real?”

She rolled her hips underneath him with a contemptuous smile, squeezing at his cock, and mimed locking her lips and throwing the key away. He responded with a slow roll of his hips, bumping her clit on the upstroke, the same leisurely pace grating at her nerves, at the anger singing behind her eyelids.

“Maybe this is the real face,” he said, voice gravelly and low. “Manipulation. Tears for the men who need tears. Poison to hide the hollowness at your heart.”

She could not stop the first tear, and locked the muscles in her arms to trembling trying to distract herself, to prevent herself from breaking into sobs. “Wrong,” she said through gritted teeth. “You cynical fuck.”

“Obviously,” he said, sardonically. “Cry for me and see if it distracts me. See if I have a conscience you can appeal to with helpless tears.”

She opened her wet eyes to stare at him. “Tell me it doesn’t turn you on. Tell me you aren’t doing this because it arouses you.” A second tear joined its mate, overflowing and running down her cheeks and into her hair.

He stopped and leaned down, still holding her calves, bringing his face within inches of hers. “I’m enjoying this, yes. But _Vipere_ , that’s not the only reason I’m doing it.” He kissed her, gently, on the lips. “I want to know what kind of woman the company chose. I want to see who you really are.” He kissed her again, lips lingering. “And I want to break your shallow little heart.”

She bit her lip hard enough to make it bleed, to keep herself from sobbing. “Why,” she said, her voice thick.

“I’ll tell you, _Vipere_ , when we’re done here.” He sat up and shifted, getting his knees underneath himself. The Spy let his hands glide down her legs to her hips and pulled her forward slightly. With a convulsive thrust of the muscles in his thighs, he pushed himself into her as far as he could go, then pulled himself almost all of the way out, watching her body move to chase him and keeping himself just barely seated. When she stopped chasing, he shoved himself back into her, waiting for her to go limp again before repeating himself. When she finally went limp, he took up a punishing rhythm, the fast, wet slap of his hips against hers fast as her heart.

The Cook started to sob, and the Spy smiled, picking up the pace. Her sobs turned to hiccups, then he watched as she bit her lip, her breathing choppy and arrested. The slab of muscle over her public hair started to tremble.

“Do it,” he said. “Do it because I told you to.”

She took a breath to tell him to fuck himself and it broke over her. She shuddered. He watched it travel through her and kept going. She started to turn, sensitive and uncomfortable, and he dug his fingers into her hips, holding her still, and kept going, still watching. She put her hands up to his chest and pushed, but he kept going, watching the fight fade from her face, watching her muscles twitch and her hands fall. When she began to squeeze him again, he let himself go, letting the pleasure spill up his back and seeing it mirrored on her face.

When he finally slowed and pulled himself away from her, he said, “Because if I break your heart, it will be harder for someone else to break it. Because if I force your hand, if the BLU take you again and give you to that soldier, you will not break as easily.”

She rolled away from him on the bed, sobs racking her body and shaking the bed. The Spy pulled her into the curve of his body and let her sob, murmuring in French, words she did not hear, could not understand, waiting out the storm of her tears.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“ _Vraiment_ ?” He replied. “No, I think you do not. I think you hate me now, but you will not hate me forever. I think, _Vipere_ , that you will have cause to thank me if they take you again. This is night and day,” he whispered in her ear, “from what you may have to endure. And if I have broken you down, it is a small fracture that I can help you heal.”

She wailed, a hopeless sound that ran through him like a bullet. He took a sharp breath, eyes tightening, the urge to curl around her and comfort warring with reckless hunger.

“Remember what I said, _Vipere_. Remember that desire is a stronger leash than love, and a sharper weapon than any knife we may carry.” He kissed the top of her head. “Remember and do not get cut deeply.” 

The wails became terrible, deep sobs, bleeding from her limp body where it lay against his. Above her head, the Spy stared at the far wall and sighed, his own chest stinging with the desire to break down.

**< <<<<< \- >>>>>>>**

He left at some point in the night, a hole in the bed and inside her, icy and horrible. The alarm went off and her nerves jumped in pain, propelling her from the room to slam her fist down on the clock until it stopped shrilling. Naked, breathing wildly, still stinking of sex, the stared down at the cracked plastic until her heart slowed, at the scattered small chips that had made up its guts. The contract she had signed and the memory of Miss Pauling’s face led her to the shower, through the process of getting dressed, and into the kitchen. She made breakfast, the expression of casual violence in her face preventing any of the mercenaries from speaking to her. The Spy merely tipped his head again, watching the murder that burned in her with a mix of satisfaction and regret.

When they left, the Cook prepared a Crock-Pot stew for dinner and walked to the armory. Selecting a familiar rifle, she slung it over her shoulder. The extra clip for the rifle and one for her pistol went into the back pocket of her jeans. The balisong that the Spy refused to take back went into the top of her boot. Satisfied, she took a breath and walked out of the kitchen.

Sneaking around the edges of the fight, she found an empty barn and climbed to the haystack. The open, warped window was small, ideal for her purposes, and she dragged a moldy hay bale to the window and propped the edge of the rifle on the window sill. Sighting down it, she scanned the field to find someone, anyone to shoot. The BLU Engineer walked bow-legged under the weight of a portable turret. With a single, soft pull and a crack of thunder, she scattered his brains and a palm of scalp and bone across the ground next to him. A long, hot jacket spat out of the gun, grazing her cheek. She flinched, then ignored the burn, scanning again for a target.

The BLU Scout stood over the RED Pyro, bat raised, smirking in triumph. She blew a smoking crater in his chest, leaning back slightly to let the shell miss her face, and went back to scanning.

The BLU Heavy suffered another amputation when he stopped to open fire on the field, his Medic ducking for cover behind the nearest rock. She smiled, a grim elation filling her and running though her like the first euphoria of a drink. She put the gun down and stretched her back, waiting through the pause the Sniper had taught her to take, body half-cocked and eager to take up the rifle again.

Fifty yards away, the BLU Spy shimmered out of sight.

After a short pause, she picked the rifle up again, cradling it in the hollow of her arm and the corner of the window frame, bracing her legs to take the shock. Sighting down the familiar scope lines, she waited for someone to round the corner of the BLU spawn building.

“I wondered,” he said drily. “Your sniper is usually better about chest or head shots. He can also hit a moving target and knows not to take three shots in a row.”

She dropped the rifle butt and started to turn, but was stopped by the blade kissing the pulse on the side of her neck.

“Come to find out,” the voice continued, “it’s amateur hour.”

“Which one are you?”

“Guess.”

“Well, you haven’t called me honey”—her fingers inched toward her boot—“so it’s not the soldier.”

“Very good.” The blade parted the first layer of skin over her pulse.

“You must be the BLU Spy.”

“Correct,” he said. “Now take off that boot. Slowly.”

She swore and inched her foot out of it. He took it from her carefully and shook the knife out of it.

“Practice with friends? I wonder if you’re any good at it.”

Her socked foot flexed against the boards as she contemplated turning anyway, and using the seconds left to her as she bled out to shoot him.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I did promise that the next time I caught you out here, I’d incapacitate you and play with you.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“But I’m curious to see if you’re any good with that little thing.” He chuckled, a single dry sound. “RED always did favor the most petite little knives. Me, I like something a bit larger. Something a little… rounder.”

She felt leather fingers stroke once down the nape of her neck. “You keep playing with those boys and you’re going to start looking like one. That’s a real pity in a cook. The skinny ones always look so sad.”

“Get it over with,” she said dully. “It isn’t like I don’t know how it feels.”

She heard a surprised snort. “And they’ve made you mouthier. No, this will never do. Stand up and put the boot back on, we’re going for a walk. If you try to grab the rifle, at this distance, I’ll cut you to shit. Leave it.”

She felt blindly behind her for the boot, and he pulled the knife back, leaving a thin, stinging slice on her neck. She put the shoe on, tying it and staring out of the warped window, a dull dread rising in her chest along with an oddly freeing pessimism. The worst was happening, and she hadn’t died yet. _Every time I think I’ve found the worst_ , she thought, the humor like a gallows she walked toward, _I keep finding more_.

When she stood, she found him a few steps away from her, the characteristic blue suit muddied and bloody. “Turn,” he said, “and climb down the ladder slowly. You bolt and I’ll find you and hand what’s left over to the Soldier. He has a bone to pick with you.”

She climbed slowly down the ladder, each warp oddly distinct under her fingers. At the bottom she paused, looking at him swinging his leg over the edge.

“I can see you,” he said. “Want to find out how good I am at hide and seek? Neighborhood champ, my whole childhood.”

She let the tension drain from her legs and waited for him to reach the last rung. As he started to step back from the ladder, she lashed out with a leg, hitting him squarely in the chest. He stumbled sideways, gasping, and she took off like a rabbit, running for the base. The world blurred, her chest heaving, as her feet pounded the ground. Steps from the base, something snagged her braid and she was yanked backward, falling on her ass.

“Well, shit, Honey, and here I was coming to you.” The BLU Soldier looked down, smiling in disbelief. “Looks like this is my lucky day.” He cocked his fist back and knocked her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Siouxie and the Banshees, "Face to Face"


End file.
